6THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS MISTRESSHaste on, my joys! your treasure liesIn swift, unceasing flight.O haste: for while your beauty fliesI seize your full delight.Lo! I have seen the scented flower,Whose tender stems I cull,For her brief date and meted hourAppear more beautiful.O youth, O strength, O most divineFor that so short ye prove;Were but your rare gifts longer mine,Ye scarce would win my love.Nay, life itself the heart would spurn,Did once the days restoreThe days, that once enjoyed return,Return—ah! nevermore.
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7INDOLENCEWe left the city when the summer dayHad verged already on its hot decline,And charmèd Indolence in languor layIn her gay gardens, 'neath her towers divine:'Farewell,' we said, 'dear city of youth and dream!'And in our boat we stepped and took the stream.All through that idle afternoon we strayedUpon our proposed travel well begun,As loitering by the woodland's dreamy shade,Past shallow islets floating in the sun,Or searching down the banks for rarer flowersWe lingered out the pleasurable hours.Till when that loveliest came, which mowers homeTurns from their longest labour, as we steeredAlong a straitened channel flecked with foam,We lost our landscape wide, and slowly nearedAn ancient bridge, that like a blind wall layLow on its buried vaults to block the way.Then soon the narrow tunnels broader showed,Where with its arches three it sucked the massOf water, that in swirl thereunder flowed,Or stood piled at the piers waiting to pass;And pulling for the middle span, we drewThe tender blades aboard and floated through.But past the bridge what change we found below!The stream, that all day long had laughed and playedBetwixt the happy shires, ran dark and slow,And with its easy flood no murmur made:And weeds spread on its surface, and aboutThe stagnant margin reared their stout heads out.{271}Upon the left high elms, with giant woodSkirting the water-meadows, interwoveTheir slumbrous crowns, o'ershadowing where they stoodThe floor and heavy pillars of the grove:And in the shade, through reeds and sedges dank,A footpath led along the moated bank.Across, all down the right, an old brick wall,Above and o'er the channel, red did lean;Here buttressed up, and bulging there to fall,Tufted with grass and plants and lichen green;And crumbling to the flood, which at its baseSlid gently nor disturbed its mirrored face.Sheer on the wall the houses rose, their backsAll windowless, neglected and awry,With tottering coigns, and crooked chimney stacks;And here and there an unused door, set highAbove the fragments of its mouldering stair,With rail and broken step led out on air.Beyond, deserted wharfs and vacant sheds,With empty boats and barges moored along,And rafts half-sunken, fringed with weedy shreds,And sodden beams, once soaked to season strong.No sight of man, nor sight of life, no stroke,No voice the somnolence and silence broke.Then I who rowed leant on my oar, whose dripFell without sparkle, and I rowed no more;And he that steered moved neither hand nor lip,But turned his wondering eye from shore to shore;And our trim boat let her swift motion die,Between the dim reflections floating by.
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8INDOLENCEI praise the tender flower,That on a mournful dayBloomed in my garden bowerAnd made the winter gay.Its loveliness contentedMy heart tormented.I praise the gentle maidWhose happy voice and smileTo confidence betrayedMy doleful heart awhile:And gave my spirit deploringFresh wings for soaring.The maid for very fearOf love I durst not tell:The rose could never hear,Though I bespake her well:So in my song I bind themFor all to find them.
9A winter's night with the snow about:'Twas silent within and cold without:Both father and mother to bed were gone:The son sat yet by the fire alone.He gazed on the fire, and dreamed againOf one that was now no more among men:As still he sat and never awareHow close was the spirit beside his chair.{273}Nay, sad were his thoughts, for he wept and saidAh, woe for the dead! ah, woe for the dead!How heavy the earth lies now on her breast,The lips that I kissed, and the hand I pressed.The spirit he saw not, he could not hearThe comforting word she spake in his ear:His heart in the grave with her mouldering clayNo welcome gave—and she fled away.
10My bed and pillow are cold,My heart is faint with dread,The air hath an odour of mould,I dream I lie with the dead:I cannot move,O come to me, Love,Or else I am dead.The feet I hear on the floorTread heavily overhead:O Love, come down to the door,Come, Love, come, ere I be dead:Make shine thy light,O Love, in the night;Or else I am dead.
11O thou unfaithful, still as ever dearestThat in thy beauty to my eyes appearestIn fancy rising now to re-awakenMy love unshaken;All thou'st forgotten, but no change can free thee,No hate unmake thee; as thou wert I see thee,And am contented, eye from fond eye meetingIts ample greeting.{274}O thou my star of stars, among things whollyDevoted, sacred, dim and melancholy,The only joy of all the joys I cherishedThat hast not perished,Why now on others squand'rest thou the treasure,That to be jealous of is still my pleasure:As still I dream 'tis me whom thou invitest,Me thou delightest?But day by day my joy hath feebler being,The fading picture tires my painful seeing,And faery fancy leaves her habitationTo desolation.Of two things open left for lovers parted'Twas thine to scorn the past and go lighthearted:But I would ever dream I still possess it,And thus caress it.
12Thou didst delight my eyes:Yet who am I? nor firstNor last nor best, that durstOnce dream of thee for prize;Nor this the only timeThou shalt set love to rhyme.Thou didst delight my ear:Ah! little praise; thy voiceMakes other hearts rejoice,Makes all ears glad that hear;And short my joy: but yet,O song, do not forget.{275}For what wert thou to me?How shall I say? The moon,That poured her midnight noonUpon his wrecking sea;—A sail, that for a dayHas cheered the castaway.
13Joy, sweetest lifeborn joy, where dost thou dwell?Upon the formless moments of our beingFlitting, to mock the ear that heareth well,To escape the trainèd eye that strains in seeing,Dost thou fly with us whither we are fleeing;Or home in our creations, to withstandBlack-wingèd death, that slays the making hand?The making mind, that must untimely perishAmidst its work which time may not destroy,The beauteous forms which man shall love to cherish,The glorious songs that combat earth's annoy?Thou dost dwell here, I know, divinest Joy:But they who build thy towers fair and strong,Of all that toil, feel most of care and wrong.Sense is so tender, O and hope so high,That common pleasures mock their hope and sense;And swifter than doth lightning from the skyThe ecstasy they pine for flashes hence,Leaving the darkness and the woe immense,Wherewith it seems no thread of life was woven,Nor doth the track remain where once 'twas cloven.And heaven and all the stable elementsThat guard God's purpose mock us, though the mindBe spent in searching: for his old intentsWe see were never for our joy designed:They shine as doth the bright sun on the blind,{276}Or like his pensioned stars, that hymn aboveHis praise, but not toward us, that God is Love.For who so well hath wooed the maiden hoursAs quite to have won the worth of their rich show,To rob the night of mystery, or the flowersOf their sweet delicacy ere they go?Nay, even the dear occasion when we know,We miss the joy, and on the gliding dayThe special glories float and pass away.Only life's common plod: still to repairThe body and the thing which perisheth:The soil, the smutch, the toil and ache and wear,The grinding enginry of blood and breath,Pain's random darts, the heartless spade of death;All is but grief, and heavily we callOn the last terror for the end of all.Then comes the happy moment: not a stirIn any tree, no portent in the sky:The morn doth neither hasten nor defer,The morrow hath no name to call it by,But life and joy are one,—we know not why,—As though our very blood long breathless lainHad tasted of the breath of God again.And having tasted it I speak of it,And praise him thinking how I trembled thenWhen his touch strengthened me, as now I sitIn wonder, reaching out beyond my ken,Reaching to turn the day back, and my penUrging to tell a tale which told would seemThe witless phantasy of them that dream.{277}But O most blessèd truth, for truth thou art,Abide thou with me till my life shall end.Divinity hath surely touched my heart;I have possessed more joy than earth can lend:I may attain what time shall never spend.Only let not my duller days destroyThe memory of thy witness and my joy.
14The full moon from her cloudless skiesTurneth her face, I think, on me;And from the hour when she doth riseTill when she sets, none else will see.One only other ray she hath,That makes an angle close with mine,And glancing down its happy pathUpon another spot doth shine.But that ray too is sent to me,For where it lights there dwells my heart:And if I were where I would be,Both rays would shine, love, where thou art.
15Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break,It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slakeThe o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee;Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee,Already they watch the path thy feet shall take:Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!And if thou tarry from her,—if this could be,—She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee;For thee would unashamèd herself forsake:Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake!{278}Awake, the land is scattered with light, and see,Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree:And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake;Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!Lo all things wake and tarry and look for thee:She looketh and saith, 'O sun, now bring him to me.Come more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake,And awake my heart to be loved: awake, awake!'
16SONGI love my lady's eyesAbove the beauties rareShe most is wont to prize,Above her sunny hair,And all that face to faceHer glass repeats of grace.For those are still the sameTo her and all that see:But oh! her eyes will flameWhen they do look on me:And so above the restI love her eyes the best.Now say, [Say, O say! saith the music]who likes my song?—I knew you by your eyes,That rest on nothing long,And have forgot surprise;And stray [Stray, O stray! saith the music]as mine will stray,The while my love's away.
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17Since thou, O fondest and truest,Hast loved me best and longest,And now with trust the strongestThe joy of my heart renewest;Since thou art dearer and dearerWhile other hearts grow colderAnd ever, as love is older,More lovingly drawest nearer:Since now I see in the measureOf all my giving and taking,Thou wert my hand in the making,The sense and soul of my pleasure;The good I have ne'er repaid theeIn heaven I pray be recorded,And all thy love rewardedBy God, thy master that made thee.
18The evening darkens overAfter a day so brightThe windcapt waves discoverThat wild will be the night.There's sound of distant thunder.The latest sea-birds hoverAlong the cliff's sheer height;As in the memory wanderLast flutterings of delight,White wings lost on the white.{280}There's not a ship in sight;And as the sun goes underThick clouds conspire to coverThe moon that should rise yonder.Thou art alone, fond lover.
19O youth whose hope is high,Who dost to Truth aspire,Whether thou live or die,O look not back nor tire.Thou that art bold to flyThrough tempest, flood and fire,Nor dost not shrink to tryThy heart in torments dire:If thou canst Death defy,If thy Faith is entire,Press onward, for thine eyeShall see thy heart's desire.Beauty and love are nigh,And with their deathless quireSoon shall thine eager cryBe numbered and expire.
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TOL. B. C. L. M.
1I love all beauteous things,I seek and adore them;God hath no better praise,And man in his hasty daysIs honoured for them.I too will something makeAnd joy in the making;Altho' to-morrow it seemLike the empty words of a dreamRemembered on waking.
2My spirit sang all dayO my joy.Nothing my tongue could say,Only My joy!My heart an echo caught—O my joy—And spake, Tell me thy thought,Hide not thy joy.{282}My eyes gan peer around,—O my joy—What beauty hast thou found?Shew us thy joy.My jealous ears grew whist;—O my joy—Music from heaven is't,Sent for our joy?She also came and heard;O my joy,What, said she, is this word?What is thy joy?And I replied, O see,O my joy,'Tis thee, I cried, 'tis thee:Thou art my joy.
3The upper skies are palest blueMottled with pearl and fretted snow:With tattered fleece of inky hueClose overhead the storm-clouds go.Their shadows fly along the hillAnd o'er the crest mount one by one:The whitened planking of the millIs now in shade and now in sun.
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4The clouds have left the sky,The wind hath left the sea,The half-moon up on highShrinketh her face of dreeShe lightens on the combOf leaden waves, that roarAnd thrust their hurried foamUp on the dusky shore.Behind the western barsThe shrouded day retreats,And unperceived the starsSteal to their sovran seats.And whiter grows the foam,The small moon lightens more;And as I turn me home,My shadow walks before.
5LAST WEEK OF FEBRUARY, 1890Hark to the merry birds, hark how they sing!Although 'tis not yet springAnd keen the air;Hale Winter, half resigning ere he go,Doth to his heiress shewHis kingdom fair.In patient russet is his forest spread,All bright with bramble red,With beechen mossAnd holly sheen: the oak silver and starkSunneth his aged barkAnd wrinkled boss.{284}But neath the ruin of the withered brakePrimroses now awakeFrom nursing shades:The crumpled carpet of the dry leaves brownAvails not to keep downThe hyacinth blades.The hazel hath put forth his tassels ruffed;The willow's flossy tuftHath slipped him free:The rose amid her ransacked orange hipsBraggeth the tender tipsOf bowers to be.A black rook stirs the branches here and there,Foraging to repairHis broken home:And hark, on the ash-boughs! Never thrush did singLouder in praise of spring,When spring is come.
6APRIL, 1885Wanton with long delay the gay spring leaping cometh;The blackthorn starreth now his bough on the eve of May:All day in the sweet box-tree the bee for pleasure hummeth:The cuckoo sends afloat his note on the air all day.Now dewy nights again and rain in gentle showerAt root of tree and flower have quenched the winter's drouth:On high the hot sun smiles, and banks of cloud uptowerIn bulging heads that crowd for miles the dazzling south.
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7Gáy Róbin is seen no more:He is gone with the snow,For winter is o'erAnd Robin will go.In need he was fed, and now he is fledAway to his secret nest.No more will he standBegging for crumbs,No longer he comesBeseeching our handAnd showing his breastAt window and door:—Gay Robin is seen no more.Blithe Robin is heard no more:He gave us his songWhen summer was o'erAnd winter was long:He sang for his bread and now he is fledAway to his secret nest.And there in the greenEarly and lateAlone to his mateHe pipeth unseenAnd swelleth his breast;For us it is o'er:—Blithe Robin is heard no more.
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8Spring goeth all in white,Crowned with milk-white may:In fleecy flocks of lightO'er heaven the white clouds stray:White butterflies in the air;White daisies prank the ground:The cherry and hoary pearScatter their snow around.
9My eyes for beauty pine,My soul for Goddës grace:No other care nor hope is mine;To heaven I turn my face.One splendour thence is shedFrom all the stars above:'Tis namèd when God's name is said,'Tis Love, 'tis heavenly Love.And every gentle heart,That burns with true desire,Is lit from eyes that mirror partOf that celestial fire.
10O Love, my muse, how was't for meAmong the best to dare,In thy high courts that bowed the kneeWith sacrifice and prayer?{287}Their mighty offerings at thy shrineShamed me, who nothing boreTheir suits were mockeries of mine,I sued for so much more.Full many I met that crowned with bayIn triumph home returned,And many a master on the wayProud of the prize I scorned.I wished no garland on my headNor treasure in my hand;My gift the longing that me led,My prayer thy high command,My love, my muse; and when I spakeThou mad'st me thine that day,And more than hundred hearts could takeGav'st me to bear away.
11Love on my heart from heaven fell,Soft as the dew on flowers of spring,Sweet as the hidden drops that swellTheir honey-throated chalicing.Now never from him do I part,Hosanna evermore I cry:I taste his savour in my heart,And bid all praise him as do I.Without him noughtsoever is,Nor was afore, nor e'er shall be:Nor any other joy than hisWish I for mine to comfort me.
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12The hill pines were sighing,O'ercast and chill was the day:A mist in the valley lyingBlotted the pleasant May.But deep in the glen's bosomSummer slept in the fireOf the odorous gorse-blossomAnd the hot scent of the brier.A ribald cuckoo clamoured,And out of the copse the strokeOf the iron axe that hammeredThe iron heart of the oak.Anon a sound appalling,As a hundred years of prideCrashed, in the silence falling:And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
13THE WINDMILLThe green corn waving in the dale,The ripe grass waving on the hill:I lean across the paddock paleAnd gaze upon the giddy mill.Its hurtling sails a mighty sweepCut thro' the air: with rushing soundEach strikes in fury down the steep,Rattles, and whirls in chase around.{289}Beside his sacks the miller standsOn high within the open door:A book and pencil in his hands,His grist and meal he reckoneth o'er.His tireless merry slave the windIs busy with his work to-day:From whencesoe'er, he comes to grind;He hath a will and knows the way.He gives the creaking sails a spin,The circling millstones faster flee,The shuddering timbers groan within,And down the shoot the meal runs free.The miller giveth him no thanks,And doth not much his work o'erlook:He stands beside the sacks, and ranksThe figures in his dusty book.
14When June is come, then all the dayI'll sit with my love in the scented hay:And watch the sunshot palaces high,That the white clouds build in the breezy sky.She singeth, and I do make her a song,And read sweet poems the whole day long:Unseen as we lie in our haybuilt home.O life is delight when June is come.
15The pinks along my garden walksHave all shot forth their summer stalks,Thronging their buds 'mong tulips hot,And blue forget-me-not.{290}Their dazzling snows forth-bursting soonWill lade the idle breath of June:And waken thro' the fragrant nightTo steal the pale moonlight.The nightingale at end of MayLingers each year for their display;Till when he sees their blossoms blown,He knows the spring is flown.June's birth they greet, and when their bloomDislustres, withering on his tomb,Then summer hath a shortening day;And steps slow to decay.
16Fire of heaven, whose starry arrowPierces the veil of timeless night:Molten spheres, whose tempests narrowTheir floods to a beam of gentle light,To charm with a moon-ray quenched from fireThe land of delight, the land of desire!Smile of love, a flower planted,Sprung in the garden of joy that art:Eyes that shine with a glow enchanted,Whose spreading fires encircle my heart,And warm with a noon-ray drenched in fireMy land of delight, my land of desire!
17The idle life I leadIs like a pleasant sleep,Wherein I rest and heedThe dreams that by me sweep.{291}And still of all my dreamsIn turn so swiftly past,Each in its fancy seemsA nobler than the last.And every eve I say,Noting my step in bliss,That I have known no dayIn all my life like this.
18Angel spirits of sleep,White-robed, with silver hair,In your meadows fair,Where the willows weep,And the sad moonbeamOn the gliding streamWrites her scattered dream:Angel spirits of sleep,Dancing to the weirIn the hollow roarOf its waters deep;Know ye how men sayThat ye haunt no moreIsle and grassy shoreWith your moonlit play;That ye dance not here,White-robed spirits of sleep,All the summer nightThreading dances light?
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19ANNIVERSARYWhat is sweeter than new-mown hay,Fresher than winds o'er-sea that blow,Innocent above children's play,Fairer and purer than winter snow,Frolic as are the morns of May?—If it should be what best I know!What is richer than thoughts that strayFrom reading of poems that smoothly flow?What is solemn like the delayOf concords linked in a music slowDying thro' vaulted aisles away?—If it should be what best I know!What gives faith to me when I pray,Setteth my heart with joy aglow,Filleth my song with fancies gay,Maketh the heaven to which I go,The gladness of earth that lasteth for aye?—If it should be what best I know!But tell me thou—'twas on this dayThat first we loved five years ago—If 'tis a thing that I can say,Though it must be what best we know.
20The summer trees are tempest-torn,The hills are wrapped in a mantle wideOf folding rain by the mad wind borneAcross the country side.{293}His scourge of fury is lashing downThe delicate-rankèd golden corn,That never more shall rear its crownAnd curtsey to the morn.There shews no care in heaven to saveMan's pitiful patience, or provideA season for the season's slave,Whose trust hath toiled and died.So my proud spirit in me is sad,A wreck of fairer fields to mourn,The ruin of golden hopes she had,My delicate-rankèd corn.
21The birds that sing on autumn evesAmong the golden-tinted leaves,Are but the few that true remainOf budding May's rejoicing train.Like autumn flowers that brave the frost,And make their show when hope is lost,These 'mong the fruits and mellow scentMourn not the high-sunned summer spent.Their notes thro' all the jocund springWere mixed in merry musicking:They sang for love the whole day long,But now their love is all for song.Now each hath perfected his layTo praise the year that hastes away:They sit on boughs apart, and vieIn single songs and rich reply:And oft as in the copse I hearThese anthems of the dying year,The passions, once her peace that stole,With flattering love my heart console.
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22When my love was away,Full three days were not sped,I caught my fancy astrayThinking if she were dead,And I alone, alone:It seemed in my miseryIn all the world was noneEver so lone as I.I wept; but it did not shameNor comfort my heart: awayI rode as I might, and cameTo my love at close of day.The sight of her stilled my fears,My fairest-hearted love:And yet in her eyes were tears:Which when I questioned of,O now thou art come, she cried,'Tis fled: but I thought to-dayI never could here abide,If thou wert longer away.
23The storm is over, the land hushes to rest:The tyrannous wind, its strength fordone,Is fallen back in the westTo couch with the sinking sun.The last clouds fareWith fainting speed, and their thin streamers flyIn melting drifts of the sky.Already the birds in the air{295}Appear again; the rooks return to their haunt,And one by one,Proclaiming aloud their care,Renew their peaceful chant.Torn and shattered the trees their branches again reset,They trim afresh the fairFew green and golden leaves withheld from the storm,And awhile will be handsome yet.To-morrow's sun shall caressTheir remnant of loveliness:In quiet days for a timeSad Autumn lingering warmShall humour their faded prime.But ah! the leaves of summer that lie on the ground!What havoc! The laughing timbrels of June,That curtained the birds' cradles, and screened their song,That sheltered the cooing doves at noon,Of airy fans the delicate throng,—Torn and scattered around:Far out afield they lie,In the watery furrows die,In grassy pools of the flood they sink and drown,Green-golden, orange, vermilion, golden and brown,The high year's flaunting crownShattered and trampled down.The day is done: the tired land looks for night:She prays to the night to keepIn peace her nerves of delight:While silver mist upstealeth silently,And the broad cloud driving moon in the clear skyLifts o'er the firs her shining shield,And in her tranquil lightSleep falls on forest and field.Sée! sléep hath fallen: the trees are asleep:The night is come. The land is wrapt in sleep.
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24Ye thrilled me once, ye mournful strains,Ye anthems of plaintive woe,My spirit was sad when I was young;Ah sorrowful long-ago!But since I have found the beauty of joyI have done with proud dismay:For howsoe'er man hug his careThe best of his art is gay.And yet if voices of fancy's choirAgain in mine ear awakeYour old lament, 'tis dear to me still,Nor all for memory's sake:'Tis like the dirge of sorrow dead,Whose tears are wiped away;Or drops of the shower when rain is o'er,That jewel the brightened day.
25Say who is this with silvered hair,So pale and worn and thin,Who passeth here, and passeth there,And looketh out and in?That useth not our garb nor tongueAnd knoweth things untold:Who teacheth pleasure to the young,And wisdom to the old?No toil he maketh his by day,No home his own by night;But wheresoe'er he take his way,He killeth our delight.{297}Since he is come there's nothing wiseNor fair in man or child,Unless his deep divining eyesHave looked on it and smiled.Whence came he hither all aloneAmong our folk to spy?There's nought that we can call our own,Till he shall hap to die.And I would dig his grave full deepBeneath the churchyard yew,Lest thence his wizard eyes might peepTo mark the things we do.
26Crown Winter with green,And give him good drinkTo physic his spleenOr ever he think.His mouth to the bowl,His feet to the fire;And let him, good soul,No comfort desire.So merry he be,I bid him abide:And merry be weThis good Yuletide.
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27The snow lies sprinkled on the beach,And whitens all the marshy lea:The sad gulls wail adown the gale,The day is dark and black the sea.Shorn of their crests the blighted wavesWith driven foam the offing fleck:The ebb is low and barely lavesThe red rust of the giant wreck.On such a stony, breaking beachMy childhood chanced and chose to be:'Twas here I played, and musing madeMy friend the melancholy sea.He from his dim enchanted cavesWith shuddering roar and onrush wildFell down in sacrificial wavesAt feet of his exulting child.Unto a spirit too light for fearHis wrath was mirth, his wail was glee:—My heart is now too fixed to bowTho' all his tempests howl at me:For to the gain life's summer saves,My solemn joy's increasing store,The tossing of his mournful wavesMakes sweetest music evermore.
28My spirit kisseth thine,My spirit embraceth thee:I feel thy being twineHer graces over me,{299}In the life-kindling foldOf God's breath; where on high,In furthest space untoldLike a lost world I lie:And o'er my dreaming plainsLightens, most pale and fair,A moon that never wanes;Or more, if I compare,Like what the shepherd seesOn late mid-winter dawns,When thro' the branchèd trees,O'er the white-frosted lawns,The huge unclouded sun,Surprising the world whist,Is all uprisen thereon,Golden with melting mist.
29Ariel, O,—my angel, my own,—Whither away then art thou flownBeyond my spirit's dominion?That makest my heart run over with rhyme,Renewing at will my youth for a time,My servant, my pretty minion.Now indeed I have cause to mourn,Now thou returnest scorn for scorn:Leave me not to my folly:For when thou art with me is none so gayAs I, and none when thou'rt awayWas ever so melancholy.
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30LAUS DEOLet praise devote thy work, and skill employThy whole mind, and thy heart be lost in joy.Well-doing bringeth pride, this constant thoughtHumility, that thy best done is nought.Man doeth nothing well, be it great or small,Save to praise God; but that hath savèd all:For God requires no more than thou hast done,And takes thy work to bless it for his own.
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DEDICATED TO M. G. K.
ITHE WINNOWERSBetwixt two billows of the downsThe little hamlet lies,And nothing sees but the bald crownsOf the hills, and the blue skies.Clustering beneath the long descentAnd grey slopes of the wold,The red roofs nestle, oversprentWith lichen yellow as gold.We found it in the mid-day sunBasking, what time of yearThe thrush his singing has begun,Ere the first leaves appear.High from his load a woodman pitchedHis faggots on the stack:Knee-deep in straw the cattle twitchedSweet hay from crib and rack:And from the barn hard by was borneA steady muffled din,By which we knew that threshèd cornWas winnowing, and went in.{302}The sunbeams on the motey airStreamed through the open door,And on the brown arms moving bare,And the grain upon the floor.One turns the crank, one stoops to feedThe hopper, lest it lack,One in the bushel scoops the seed,One stands to hold the sack.We watched the good grain rattle down,And the awns fly in the draught;To see us both so pensive grownThe honest labourers laughed:Merry they were, because the wheatWas clean and plump and good,Pleasant to hand and eye, and meetFor market and for food.It chanced we from the city were,And had not gat us freeIn spirit from the store and stirOf its immensity:But here we found ourselves again.Where humble harvests bringAfter much toil but little grain,'Tis merry winnowing.
2THE AFFLICTION OF RICHARDLove not too much. But how,When thou hast made me such,And dost thy gifts bestow,How can I love too much?{303}Though I must fear to lose,And drown my joy in care,With all its thorns I chooseThe path of love and prayer.Though thou, I know not why,Didst kill my childish trust,That breach with toil did IRepair, because I must:And spite of frighting schemes,With which the fiends of HellBlaspheme thee in my dreams,So far I have hoped well.But what the heavenly key,What marvel in me wroughtShall quite exculpate thee,I have no shadow of thought.What am I that complain?The love, from which beganMy question sad and vain,Justifies thee to man.
3Since to be loved endures,To love is wise:Earth hath no good but yours,Brave, joyful eyes:Earth hath no sin but thine,Dull eye of scorn:O'er thee the sun doth pineAnd angels mourn.
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4THE GARDEN IN SEPTEMBERNow thin mists temper the slow-ripening beamsOf the September sun: his golden gleamsOn gaudy flowers shine, that prank the rowsOf high-grown hollyhocks, and all tall showsThat Autumn flaunteth in his bushy bowers;Where tomtits, hanging from the drooping headsOf giant sunflowers, peck the nutty seeds;And in the feathery aster bees on wingSeize and set free the honied flowers,Till thousand stars leap with their visiting:While ever across the path mazily flit,Unpiloted in the sun,The dreamy butterfliesWith dazzling colours powdered and soft glooms,White, black and crimson stripes, and peacock eyes,Or on chance flowers sit,With idle effort plundering one by oneThe nectaries of deepest-throated blooms.With gentle flaws the western breezeInto the garden saileth,Scarce here and there stirring the single trees,For his sharpness he vaileth:So long a comrade of the bearded corn,Now from the stubbles whence the shocks are borne,O'er dewy lawns he turns to stray,As mindful of the kisses and soft playWherewith he enamoured the light-hearted May,Ere he deserted her;Lover of fragrance, and too late repents;Nor more of heavy hyacinth now may drink,Nor spicy pink,{305}Nor summer's rose, nor garnered lavender,But the few lingering scentsOf streakèd pea, and gillyflower, and stocksOf courtly purple, and aromatic phlox.And at all times to hear are drowsy tonesOf dizzy flies, and humming drones,With sudden flap of pigeon wings in the sky,Or the wild cryOf thirsty rooks, that scour ascareThe distant blue, to watering as they fareWith creaking pinions, or—on business bent,If aught their ancient polity displease,—Come gathering to their colony, and thereSettling in ragged parliament,Some stormy council hold in the high trees.
5So sweet love seemed that April morn,When first we kissed beside the thorn,So strangely sweet, it was not strangeWe thought that love could never change.But I can tell—let truth be told—That love will change in growing old;Though day by day is nought to see,So delicate his motions be.And in the end 'twill come to passQuite to forget what once he was,Nor even in fancy to recallThe pleasure that was all in all.His little spring, that sweet we found,So deep in summer floods is drowned,I wonder, bathed in joy complete,How love so young could be so sweet.
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6LARKSWhat voice of gladness, hark!In heaven is ringing?From the sad fields the larkIs upward winging.High through the mournful mist that blots our dayTheir songs betray them soaring in the grey.See them! Nay, theyIn sunlight swim; above the furthest stainOf cloud attain; their hearts in music rainUpon the plain.Sweet birds, far out of sightYour songs of pleasureDome us with joy as brightAs heaven's best azure.
7THE PALM WILLOWSee, whirling snow sprinkles the starvèd fields,The birds have stayed to sing;No covert yet their fairy harbour yields.When cometh Spring?Ah! in their tiny throats what songs unbornAre quenched each morn.The lenten lilies, through the frost that push,Their yellow heads withhold:The woodland willow stands a lonely bushOf nebulous gold;There the Spring-goddess cowers in faint attireOf frightened fire.
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8ASIAN BIRDSIn this May-month, by graceof heaven, things shoot apace.The waiting multitudeof fair boughs in the wood,How few days have arrayedtheir beauty in green shade.What have I seen or heard?it was the yellow birdSang in the tree: he flewa flame against the blue;Upward he flashed. Again,hark! 'tis his heavenly strain.Another! Hush! Behold,many, like boats of gold,From waving branch to branchtheir airy bodies launch.What music is like this,where each note is a kiss?The golden willows lifttheir boughs the sun to sift:Their sprays they droop to screenthe sky with veils of green,A floating cage of song,where feathered lovers throng.How the delicious notescome bubbling from their throats!Full and sweet how they are shedlike round pearls from a thread!The motions of their flightare wishes of delight.{308}Hearing their song I tracethe secret of their grace.Ah, could I this fair timeso fashion into rhyme,The poem that I singwould be the voice of spring.
9JANUARYCold is the winter day, misty and dark:The sunless sky with faded gleams is rent:And patches of thin snow outlying, markThe landscape with a drear disfigurement.The trees their mournful branches lift aloft:The oak with knotty twigs is full of trust,With bud-thronged bough the cherry in the croft;The chestnut holds her gluey knops upthrust.No birds sing, but the starling chaps his billAnd chatters mockingly; the newborn lambsWithin their strawbuilt fold beneath the hillAnswer with plaintive cry their bleating dams.Their voices melt in welcome dreams of spring,Green grass and leafy trees and sunny skies:My fancy decks the woods, the thrushes sing,Meadows are gay, bees hum and scents arise.And God the Maker doth my heart grow boldTo praise for wintry works not understood,Who all the worlds and ages doth behold,Evil and good as one, and all as good.
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10A ROBINFlame-throated robin on the topmost boughOf the leafless oak, what singest thou?Hark! he telleth how—'Spring is coming now; Spring is coming now.Now ruddy are the elm-tops against the blue sky,The pale larch donneth her jewelry;Red fir and black fir sigh,And I am lamenting the year gone by.The bushes where I nested are all cut down,They are felling the tall trees one by one,And my mate is dead and gone,In the winter she died and left me lone.She lay in the thicket where I fear to go;For when the March-winds after the snowThe leaves away did blow,She was not there, and my heart is woe:And sad is my song, when I begin to sing,As I sit in the sunshine this merry spring:Like a withered leaf I clingTo the white oak-bough, while the wood doth ring.Spring is coming now, the sun again is gay;Each day like a last spring's happy day.'—Thus sang he; then from his sprayHe saw me listening and flew away.
11I never shall love the snow againSince Maurice died:With corniced drift it blocked the laneAnd sheeted in a desolate plainThe country side.{310}The trees with silvery rime bedightTheir branches bare.By day no sun appeared; by nightThe hidden moon shed thievish lightIn the misty air.We fed the birds that flew aroundIn flocks to be fed:No shelter in holly or brake they found.The speckled thrush on the frozen groundLay frozen and dead.We skated on stream and pond; we cutThe crinching snowTo Doric temple or Arctic hut;We laughed and sang at nightfall, shutBy the fireside glow.Yet grudged we our keen delights beforeMaurice should come.We said, In-door or out-of-doorWe shall love life for a month or more,When he is home.They brought him home; 'twas two days lateFor Christmas day:Wrapped in white, in solemn state,A flower in his hand, all still and straightOur Maurice lay.And two days ere the year outgaveWe laid him low.The best of us truly were not brave,When we laid Maurice down in his graveUnder the snow.
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12NIGHTINGALESBeautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefromYe learn your song:Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,Among the flowers, which in that heavenly airBloom the year long!Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,A throe of the heart,Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,For all our art.Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of menWe pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,As night is withdrawnFrom these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,Dream, while the innumerable choir of dayWelcome the dawn.
13A song of my heart, as the sun peered o'er the sea,Was born at morning to me:And out of my treasure-house it choseA melody, that aroseOf all fair sounds that I love, remembered togetherIn one; and I knew not whetherFrom waves of rustling wheat it was,Recoveringly that pass:{312}Or a hum of bees in the queenly robes of the lime:Or a descant in pairing timeOf warbling birds: or watery bellsOf rivulets in the hills:Or whether on blazing downs a high lark's hymnAlone in the azure dim:Or a sough of pines, when the midnight woldIs solitary and cold:Or a lapping river-ripple all day chidingThe bow of my wherry glidingDown Thames, between his flowery shoresRe-echoing to the oars:Or anthem notes, wherever in archèd quiresThe unheeded music twires,And, centuries by, to the stony shadeFlies following and to fade:Or a homely prattle of children's voices gay'Mong garden joys at play:Or a sundown chaunting of solemn rooks:Or memory of my books,Which hold the words that poets in many a tongueTo the irksome world have sung:Or the voice, my happy lover, of theeNow separated from me.A ruby of fire in the burning sleep of my brainLong hid my thought had lain,Forgotten dreams of a thousand daysIngathering to its rays,The light of life in darkness tempering long;Till now a perfect song,A jewel of jewels it leapt aboveTo the coronal of my love.
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14FOUNDER'S DAY. A SECULAR ODEON THE NINTH JUBILEE OFETON COLLEGEChrist and his Mother, heavenly maid,Mary, in whose fair name was laidEton's corner, bless our youthWith truth, and purity, mother of truth!O ye, 'neath breezy skies of June,By silver Thames's lulling tune,In shade of willow or oak, who tryThe golden gates of poesy;Or on the tabled sward all dayMatch your strength in England's play,Scholars of Henry, giving graceTo toil and force in game or race;Exceed the prayer and keep the fameOf him, the sorrowful king, who cameHere in his realm a realm to found,Where he might stand for ever crowned.Or whether with naked bodies flashingYe plunge in the lashing weir; or dashingThe oars of cedar skiffs, ye strainRound the rushes and home again;—Or what pursuit soe'er it beThat makes your mingled presence free,When by the schoolgate 'neath the limesYe muster waiting the lazy chimes;{314}May Peace, that conquereth sin and death,Temper for you her sword of faith;Crown with honour the loving eyes,And touch with mirth the mouth of the wise.Here is eternal spring: for youThe very stars of heaven are new;And aged Fame again is born,Fresh as a peeping flower of morn.For you shall Shakespeare's scene unroll,Mozart shall steal your ravished soul,Homer his bardic hymn rehearse,Virgil recite his maiden verse.Now learn, love, have, do, be the best;Each in one thing excel the rest:Strive; and hold fast this truth of heaven—To him that hath shall more be given.Slow on your dial the shadows creep,So many hours for food and sleep,So many hours till study tire,So many hours for heart's desire.These suns and moons shall memory save,Mirrors bright for her magic cave;Wherein may steadfast eyes beholdA self that groweth never old.O in such prime enjoy your lot,And when ye leave regret it not;With wishing gifts in festal statePass ye the angel-sworded gate.{315}Then to the world let shine your light,Children in play be lions in fight,And match with red immortal deedsThe victory that made ring the meads:Or by firm wisdom save your landFrom giddy head and grasping hand:Improve the best; so shall your sonsBetter what ye have bettered once.Send them here to the court of graceBearing your name to fill your place:Ye in their time shall live againThe happy dream of Henry's reign:And on his day your steps be bentWhere, saint and king, crowned with content,He biddeth a prayer to bless his youthWith truth, and purity, mother of truth.