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27AN ANNIVERSARYHEBright, my belovèd, be thy day,This eve of Summer's fall:And Autumn mass his flowers gayTo crown thy festival!SHEI care not if the morn be bright,Living in thy love-rays:No flower I need for my delight,Being crownèd with thy praise.HEO many years and joyfullyThis sun to thee return;Ever all men speak well of thee,Nor any angel mourn!SHEFor length of life I would not pray,If thy life were to seek;Nor ask what men and angels sayBut when of thee they speak.HEArise! The sky hath heard my song,The flowers o'erhear thy praise;And little loves are waking longTo wish thee happy days.
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28REGINA CARAJUBILEE-SONG, FOR MUSIC, 1897Hark! The world is full of thy praise,England's Queen of many days;Who, knowing how to rule the free,Hast given a crown to monarchy.Honour, Truth and growing PeaceFollow Britannia's wide increase,And Nature yield her strength unknownTo the wisdom born beneath thy throne!In wisdom and love firm is thy fame:Enemies bow to revere thy name:The world shall never tire to tellPraise of the queen that reignèd well.O felix anima, Domina praeclara,Amore semper coronabereRegina cara.
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OCCASIONAL ODES &C.
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{367}
1RECOLLECTIONS OF SOLITUDEAN ELEGYEnded are many days, and now but fewRemain; since therefore it is happy and trueThat memoried joys keep ever their delight,Like steadfast stars in the blue vault of night,While hours of pain (among those heavenly spheresLike falling meteors, the martyr's tears)Dart their long trails at random, and anon,Ere we exclaim, pass, and for aye are gone;Therefore my heedy thought will oft restoreThe long light-hearted days that are no more,Save where in her memorial crypt they shineSpangling the silent past with joy divine.But why in dream of this enchanted moodShould all my boyhood seem a solitude?Good reason know I, when I wander there,In that transmuted scene, why all is fair;The woods as when in holiday of springMillion buds burst, and flowers are blossoming;The meadows deep in grass, the fields unshornIn beauty of the multitudinous corn,Where the strait alleys hide me, wall'd betweenHigh bloomy stalks and rustling banners green;The gardens, too, in dazzling hues full-blown,With wafted scent and blazing petals strewn;The orchards reddening thro' the patient hours,While idle autumn in his mossy bowers{368}Inviteth meditation to endearThe sanctuaries of the mellowing year;And every spot wherein I loved to strayHath borrowed radiance of eternal day;But why am I ever alone, alone?Here in the corner of a field my throne,Now in the branching chair of some tall treeDrinking the gale in bird-like liberty;Or to the seashore wandered in the sunTo watch the fateful waves break one by one;Or if on basking downs supine I lieBathing my spirit in blue calms of the sky;Or to the river bank am stolen by nightHearkening unto the moonlit ripple brightThat warbles o'er the shallows of smooth stone;Why should my memory find me all alone,When I had such companions every dayJocund and dear? 'Twixt glimpses of their play'Tis a vast solitude, wherein I seeOnly myself and what I came to be.Yet never think, dear spirits, if now ye mayRemember aught of that brief earthly day,Ere ye the mournful Stygian river crost,From our familiar home too early lost,—O never think that I your tears forget,Or that I loved not well, or love not yet.Nor ye who held my heart in passion's chain,—As kings and queens succeed in glorious reign—When, as a man, I made you to outvieGod's work, and, as a god, then set you byAmong the sainted throng in holiest shrineOf mythic creed and poetry divine;True was my faith, and still your loves endure,The jewels of my fancy, bright and pure.{369}Nor only in fair places do I seeThe picture fair now it has ceased to be:For fate once led me, and myself some daysDid I devote, to dull laborious ways,By soaring thought detained to tread full low,—Yea might I say unbeauteous paths of woeAnd dreary abodes, had not my youthful spriteHallow'd each nook with legends of delight.Ah! o'er that smoky town who looketh nowBy winter sunset from the dark hill-brow,Under the dying trees exultantlyNursing the sting of human tragedy?Or in that little room upstair'd so high,Where London's roofs in thickest huddle lie,Who now returns at evening to enticeTo his fireside the joys of Paradise?Once sacred was that hearth, and bright the air;The flame of man's redemption flickered there,In worship of those spirits, whose deathless famesHave thrilled the stars of heaven to hear their names;They that excell'd in wisdom to createBeauty, with mortal passion conquering fate;And, mid the sovran powers of elder time,The loveliness of music and new rhyme,The masters young that first enthrallèd me;Of whom if I should name, whom then but thee,Sweet Shelley, or the boy whose book was foundThrust in thy bosom on thy body drowned?O mighty Muse, wooer of virgin thought,Beside thy charm all else counteth as nought;The revelation of thy smile doth makeHim whom thou lovest reckless for thy sake;Earthborn of suffering, that knowest wellTo call thine own, and with enamouring spell{370}Feedest the stolen powers of godlike youthOn dear imagination's only truth,Building with song a temple of desire;And with the yearning music of thy quire,In nuptial sacrament of thought and senseHallowest for toil the hours of indolence:Thou in thy melancholic beauty drest,Subduest ill to serve thy fair behest,With tragic tears, and sevenfold purifiedSilver of mirth; and with extremest pride,With secret doctrine and unfathomed loreRemainest yet a child for evermore,The only enchantress of the earth that artTo cheer his day and staunch man's bleeding heart.O heavenly Muse, for heavenly thee we callWho in the fire of love refinest all,Accurst is he who heark'neth not thy voice;But happy he who, numbered of thy choice,Walketh aloof from nature's clouded plan:For all God's world is but the thought of man;Wherein hast thou re-formed a world apart,The mutual mirror of his better heart.There is no foulness, misery, nor sin,But he who loves finds his desire therein,And there with thee in lonely commerce lives:Nay, all that nature gave or fortune gives,Joys that his spirit is most jealous of,His only-embraced and best-deserving love,Who walketh in the noon of heavenly praise,The troubled godhead of his children's gaze,Wear thine eternity, and are loved bestBy thee transfigured and in thee possest;Who madest beauty, and from thy boundless storeOf beauty shalt create for evermore.
1900.
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2Gay Marigold is frolic,She laughs till summer is done;She hears the Grillie chirpingAll day i' the blazing sun.But when the pale moon rises,She fain her face would hide;For the high Queen of sorrowsDisdains her empty pride.Fair Primrose haunts the shadowWith children of the Spring,Till in the bloomy woodlandThe nightingale will sing.And when he lauds the May-nightAnd spirits throng the grove,The moon shines thro' the branchesAnd floods her heart with love.
3MATRES DOLOROSAEYe Spartan mothers, gentle ones,Of lion-hearted, loving sons,Fal'n, the flower of English youth,To a barbarous foe in a land uncouth:—O what a delicate sacrifice!Unequal the stake and costly the priceAs when the queen of Love deplor'dHer darling by the wild-beast gor'd.{372}They rode to war as if to the hunt,But ye at home, ye bore the brunt,Bore the siege of torturing fears,Fed your hope on the bread of tears.Proud and spotless warriors theyWith love or sword to lead the way;For ye had cradled heart and hand,The commander hearken'd to your command.Ah, weeping mothers, now all is o'er,Ye know your honour and mourn no more:Nor ask ye a name in England's story,Who gave your dearest for her glory.
May 20, 1902.
4A VIGNETTEAmong the meadowslightly going,With worship and joymy heart o'erflowing,Far from townand toil of living,To a holy daymy spirit giving,...* * *Thou tender flower,I kneel beside theeWondering why Godso beautified thee.—{373}An answering thoughtwithin me springeth,A bloom of the mindher vision bringeth.Between the dim hill'sdistant azureAnd flowery foregroundof sparkling pleasureI see the companyof figures sainted,For whom the pictureof earth was painted.Those robèd seerswho made man's storyThe crown of Nature,Her cause his glory.They walk in the citywhich they have builded,The city of Godfrom evil shielded:To them for canopythe vault of heaven,The flowery earthfor carpet is given;Whereon I wandernot unknowing,With worship and joymy heart o'erflowing.
1901.
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5MILLICENTThou dimpled Millicent, of merry guesses,Strong-limb'd and tall, tossing thy wayward tresses,What mystery of the heart can so surpriseThe mirth and music of thy brimming eyes?Pale-brow, thou knowest not and diest to learnThe mortal secret that doth in thee burn;With look imploring 'If you love me, tell,What is it in me that you love so well?'And suddenly thou stakest all thy charms,And leapest on me; and in thy circling armsWhen almost stifled with their wild embrace,I feel thy hot tears sheltering on my face.
1901.
6VIVAMUSWhen thou didst give thy love to me,Asking no more of gods or menI vow'd I would contented be,If Fate should grant us summers ten.But now that twice the term is sped,And ever young my heart and gay,I fear the words that then I said,And turn my face from Fate away.To bid thee happily good-byeI have no hope that I can see,No way that I shall bravely die,Unless I give my life for thee.
1901.
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7One grief of thineif truth be confestWas joy to me;for it drave to my breastThee, to my heartto find thy rest.How long it wasI never shall know:I watcht the earthso stately and slow,And the ancient thingsthat waste and grow.But now for mewhat speed devoursOur heavenly life,our brilliant hours!How fast they fly,the stars and flowers!
8In still midsummer nightWhen the moon is lateAnd the stars all watery and whiteFor her coming wait,A spirit, whose eyes are possestBy wonder new,Passeth—her arms upon her breastEnwrapt from the dew{376}In a raiment of azure foldWith diaperOf flower'd embroidery of goldBestarr'd with silver.The daisy folk are awakeTheir carpet to spread,And the thron'd stars gazing on her makeFresh crowns for her head,Netted in her floating hairAs she drifteth freeBetween the starriness of the airAnd the starry lea,From the silent-shadow'd valeBy the west wind drawnAloft to melt into the paleMoonrise of dawn.
1910.
9MELANCHOLIAThe sickness of desire, that in dark daysLooks on the imagination of despair,Forgetteth man, and stinteth God his praise;Nor but in sleep findeth a cure for care.Incertainty that once gave scope to dreamOf laughing enterprise and glory untold,Is now a blackness that no stars redeem,A wall of terror in a night of cold.Fool! thou that hast impossibly desiredAnd now impatiently despairest, seeHow nought is changed: Joy's wisdom is attiredSplendid for others' eyes if not for thee:Not love or beauty or youth from earth is fled:If they delite thee not, 'tis thou art dead.
1914.
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10TO THE PRESIDENT OF MAGDALENCOLLEGE, OXFORDSince now from woodland mist and flooded clayI am fled beside the steep Devonian shore,Nor stand for welcome at your gothic door,'Neath the fair tower of Magdalen and May,Such tribute, Warren, as fond poets payFor generous esteem, I write, not moreEnhearten'd than my need is, reckoning o'erMy life-long wanderings on the heavenly way:But well-befriended we become good friends,Well-honour'd honourable; and all attainSomewhat by fathering what fortune sends.I bid your presidency a long reign,True friend; and may your praise to greater endsAid better men than I, nor me in vain.
11TO JOSEPH JOACHIMBelov'd of all to whom that Muse is dearWho hid her spirit of rapture from the Greek,Whereby our art excelleth the antique,Perfecting formal beauty to the ear;Thou that hast been in England many a yearThe interpreter who left us nought to seek,Making Beethoven's inmost passion speak,Bringing the soul of great Sebastian near:{378}Their music liveth ever, and 'tis justThat thou, good Joachim, so high thy skill,Rank (as thou shalt upon the heavenly hill)Laurel'd with them, for thy ennobling trustRemember'd when thy loving hand is stillAnd every ear that heard thee stopt with dust.
12TO THOS. FLOYDHow fares it, friend, since I by Fate annoy'dLeft the old home in need of livelier playFor body and mind? How fare, this many a day,The stubborn thews and ageless heart of Floyd?If not too well with country sport employ'd,Visit my flock, the breezy hill that theyChoose for their fold; and see, for thence you may,From rising walls all roofless yet and void,The lovely city, thronging tower and spire,The mind of the wide landscape, dreaming deep,Grey-silvery in the vale; a shrine where keepMemorial hopes their pale celestial fire:Like man's immortal conscience of desire,The spirit that watcheth in me ev'n in my sleep.
1906.
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13LA GLOIRE DE VOLTAIREA DIALOGUE IN VERSE.A.Je donnerais pour revivre à vingt ansL'or de Rothschild, la gloire de Voltaire.I like that: Béranger in his printems,Voltaire and Rothschild: what three graces thereFoot it together! But of old Voltaire,I'd ask what Béranger found so sublimeIn that man's glory to adorn his rhyme.Was it mere fame?B.Nay: for as wide a fameWas won by the gold-garnering millionaire,Who in the poet's verse might read his nameAnd what is that? when so much froth and scumFloat down the stream of Time (as Bacon saith),What is that for deliverance from the death?Could any sober man be proud to holdA lease of common talk, or die consoledFor thinking that on lips of fools to comeHe'll live with Pontius Pilate and Tom Thumb?That were more like eternal punishment,The true fool's Paradise by all consent.Béranger thought to set a crown on merit.A.Man's merit! and to crown it in Voltaire?The modest eye, the gentle, fearless heart,The mouth of peace and truth, the angelic spirit!Why Arouet wassouffléwith the leaven,{380}Of which the little flock was bid beware:His very ambition was to play a part;Indifferent whether he did wrong or right,So he won credit; eager to denyA lie that failed, by adding lie to lie;Repaying evil unto seven-times-seven;A fount of slander, flattery and spite;Vain, irritable; true but to his faceOf mockery and mischievous grimace,A monkey of the schools, the saints' despair!B.Yet for his voice half Europe stood at pauseTo hear, and when he spoke rang with applause.A.Granted he was a wonder of his kind.There is a devilish mockery in thingsWhich only a born devil can enjoy.True banter is of melancholy mind,Akin to madness; thus must Shakespeare toyWith Hamlet's reason, ere his fine art darePush his relentless humour to the quick;And so his mortal thrusts pierce not the skin.But for the superficial bickeringsThat poison life and never seem to prick,The reasonable educated grin,Truly no wag is equal to Voltaire;His never-dying ripple, wide and light,Has nigh the force of Nature: to compare,'Tis like the ocean when the sky is bright,And the cold north-wind tickles with surpriseThe briny levels of the infinite sea.—Shall we conclude his merit was his wit,His magic art and versatility?{381}B.And think of those foredoom'd in Dante's pit,Who, sunk at bottom of the loathly slough,Made the black mud up-bubble with their sighs;And all because they were unkind to Mirth,And went with smoky heart and gloomy browThe while they lived upon the pleasant earthIn the sweet air that rallies to the sun,And ne'er so much as smiled or gave God thanks:Surely a sparkle of the Frenchman's funHad rescued all their souls.A.I think I seeThe Deity who in this Heaven abides,Le bon Dieu, holding both his aching sides,With radiant face of Pan, ruddy and hairy:Give him his famous whistles and goat-shanks,And then present him to Alighieri.B.Nay, 'twixt the Frenchman and the FlorentineI ask no truce, grave Dante weaving wellHis dark-eyed thought into a song divine,Drawing high poetry from heaven and hell—And him who lightly mockt at all in turn.A.It follow'd from his mundane thought of artThat he contemn'd religion: his concernWas comfort, taste, and wit: he had no heartFor man's attempt to build and beautifyHis home in Nature; so he set all byThat wisdom had evolved with purpose kind;{382}Stamped it as folly, or as fraud attacked;Never discerning how his callow zestWas impiously defiling his own nest;Whereas the least philosophy may findThe truths are the ideas; the sole factIs the long story of man's growing mind.B.Upon your thistle now I see my fig—Béranger thought of Voltaire as a seer,A latter-day John Baptist in a wig;A herald of that furious gospel-stormOf words and blood, that made the nations fear;When sickening France adulterously sinn'dWith Virtue, and went mad conceiving wind.He ranks him with those captains of reform,Luther and Calvin; who, whate'er they taught,Led folk from superstition to free thought.A.They did. But whence or whither led Voltaire?The steward with fifty talents given in charge,Who spent them on himself, and liv'd at large;His only virtue that he did not hideThe pounds, but squander'd them to serve his pride;His praise that, cunning in his generation,He of the heavenly treasure did not spareTo win himself an earthly habitation.B.Deny him not this laurel, nor to FranceThe apostolate of modern tolerance:Their Theseus he, who slew the Minotaur,The Dragon Persecution, in which warHe tipp'd the shafts that made the devil bleed;{383}And won a victory that hath overcomeMany misdoings in a well-done deed;And more, I think, the mind of Christ revealing,Yea, more of common-sense and human feelingThan all the Creeds and Bulls of Christendom.A.Yet was he only one of them that slew:The fiend had taken a deadly wound from Bayle;And did he 'roar to see his kingdom fail''Neath Robespierre, or raise his head anew?Nay, Voltaire's teaching never cured the heart:The lack of human feeling blots his art.When most his phrase with indignation burns,Still to the gallery his face he turns.B.You bear him hard. Men are of common stuff,Each hath some fault, and he had faults enough:But of all slanderers that ever wereA virtuous critic is the most unfair.In greatness ever is some good to see;And what is character, unless it beThe colour of persistent qualities,That, like a ground in painting, balancesAll hues and forms, combining with one toneWhatever lights or shades are on it thrown?Now Voltaire had of Nature a rich ground,Two virtues rarely in conjunction found:Industry, which no pedant could excel,He matched with gaiety inexhaustible;And with heroic courage held these fast,As sailors nail their colours to the mast,With ruling excellence atoning all.Though, for the rest, he still for praise may call;{384}Prudent to gain, as generous to shareLe superflu, chose si nécessaire;To most a rare companion above scorn,To not a few a kind, devoted friendThrough his long battling life, which in the endHe strove with good works richly to adorn.I have admired, and why should I abuseA man who can so long and well amuse?A.To some Parisian art there's this objection,'Tis mediocrity pushed to perfection.B.'Judge not,' say I, 'and ye shall not be judged!'A.Let me say, 'praise men, if ye would be praised:'Let your unwholesome flattery flow ungrudged,And with ungrudging measure shall men pourTheir stifling homage back till ye be crazed,And sane men humour you as fools past cure.But these wise maxims deal not with the dead,'Tis by example that the young are led,And judgement owes its kindness but to them;Nor will I praise, call you me hard or nice,One that degraded art, and varnished vice.They that praise ill thereby themselves condemn.B.Béranger could not praise.A.Few are who can;Not he: if ever he assay'd to impartA title loftier than his own renown,{385}Native irreverence defied his art,His fingers soil'd the lustre of his crown.Here he adored what he was envious of,The vogue and dazzling fashion of the man.But man's true praise, the poet's praise, is love.B.And that, perhaps, was hardly his affair....Pray, now, what set you talking of Voltaire?A.This only, that in weeding out my shelves,In fatherly regard for babes upgrown,Until they learn to garden for themselves,Much as I like to keep my sets entire,When I came out to you I had just thrownThree of his precious works behind the fire.
14TO ROBERT BURNSAN EPISTLE ON INSTINCT1Thou art a poet, Robbie Burns,Master of words and witty turns,Of lilting songs and merry yarns,Drinking and kissing:There's much in all thy small concerns,But more that's missing.2The wisdom of thy common sense,Thy honest hate of vain pretence,Thy love and wide benevolenceFull often lead theeWhere feeling is its own defence;Yet while I read thee,{386}3It seems but chance that all our raceTrod not the path of thy disgrace,And, living freely to embraceThe moment's pleasure,Snatch'd not a kiss of Nature's faceFor all her treasure.4The feelings soft, the spirits gayEntice on such a flowery way,And sovran youth in high heydayHath such a fashionTo glorify the bragging swayOf sensual passion.5But rakel Chance and Fortune blindHad not the power:—Eternal MindLed man upon a way design'd,By strait selectionOf pleasurable ways, to findSevere perfection.6For Nature did not idly spendPleasure: she ruled it should attendOn every act that doth amendOur life's condition:'Tis therefore not well-being's end,But its fruition.7Beasts that inherited delightIn what promoted health or might,Survived their cousins in the fight:If some—like Adam—Prefer'd the wrong tree to the right,The devil had 'em.{387}8So when man's Reason took the reins,She found that she was saved her pains;She had but to approve the gainsOf agelong inscience,And spin it fresh into her brainsAs moral conscience.9But Instinct in the beasts that liveIs of three kinds; (Nature did giveTo man three shakings in her sieve)—The first is Racial,The second Self-preservative,The third is Social.10Without the first no race could be,So 'tis the strongest of the three;Nay, of such forceful tyranny'Tis hard to attune it,Because 'twas never made to agreeTo serve the unit:11Art will not picture it, its nameIn common talk is utter shame:And yet hath Reason learn'd to tameIts conflagrationInto a sacramental flameOf consecration.12Those hundred thousand years, ah me!Of budding soul! What slow degree,With aim so dim, so true! We see,Now that we know them,Our humble cave-folk ancestry,How much we owe them:{388}13While with the savage beasts aroundThey fought at odds, yet undergroundTheir miserable life was sound;Their loves and quarrelsDid well th' ideal bases foundOf art and morals:14One prime distinction, Good and Ill,Was all their notion, all their skill;—But Unity stands next to Nil;—Want of analysisSaved them from doubts that wreck the WillWith pale paralysis.15In vain philosophers dispute'Is Good or Pleasure our pursuit?'—The fruit likes man, not man the fruit;The good that likes him,The good man's pleasure 'tis to do 't;That's how it strikes him.16Tho' Science hide beneath her feetThe point where moral reasonings meet,The vicious circle is complete;There is no lodgementSave Aristotle's own retreat,The just man's judgement.17And if thou wert not that just man,Wild Robin, born to crown his plan,We shall not for that matter banThy petty treason,Nor closely thy defection scanFrom highest Reason.{389}18Thou might'st have lived like Robin HoodWaylaying Abbots in the wood,Doing whate'er thee-seemèd good,The law defying,And 'mong the people's heroes stoodLiving and dying:19Yet better bow than his thou bendest,And well the poor man thou befriendest,And oftentime an ill amendest;When, if truth touch thee,Sharply the arrow home thou sendest;There's none can match thee.20So pity it is thou knew'st the teenOf sad remorse: the Might-have-beenShall not o'ercloud thy merry sceneWith vain repentance,Nor forfeit from thy spirit keenMy friendly sentence.
15THE PORTRAIT OF A GRANDFATHERWith mild eyes agaze, and lips ready to speak,Whereon the yearning of love, the warning of wisdom plays,One portrait ever charms me and teaches me when I seek:It is of him whom I, remembering my young days,Imagine fathering my father; when he, in sonship afore,Liv'd honouring and obeying the eyes now pictur'd agaze,The lips ready to speak, that promise but speak no more.{390}O high parental claim, that were not but for the knowing,O fateful bond of duty, O more than body that bore,The smile that guides me to right, the gaze that follows my going,How had I stray'd without thee! and yet how few will seekThe spirit-hands, that heaven, in tender-free bestowing,Holds to her children, to guide the wandering and aid the weak.And Thee! ah what of thee, thou lover of men? if trulyA painter had stell'd thee there, with thy lips ready to speak,In all-fathering passion to souls enchanted newly,—Tenderer call than of sire to son, or of lover to maiden,—Ever ready to speak to us, if we will hearken duly,'Come, O come unto me, ye weary and heavy-laden!'
[1880.]
16AN INVITATION TO THE OXFORDPAGEANT, JULY 1907Fair lady of learning, playfellow of spring,Who to thy towery hospice in the valeInvitest all, with queenly claim to bringScholars from every land within thy pale;If aught our pageantry may now availTo paint thine antique story to the eye,Inspire the scene, and bid thy herald cryWelcome to all, and to all comers hail!Come hither, then he crieth, and hail to all.Bow each his heart a pilgrim at her shrine,Whatever chance hath led you to my call,Ye that love pomp, and ye that seek a sign,{391}Or on the low earth look for things divine;Nor ye, whom reverend Camus near-allied,Writes in the roll of his ennobled pride,Refrain your praise and love to mix with mine.Praise her, the mother of celestial moods,Who o'er the saints' inviolate arrayHath starr'd her robe of fair beatitudesWith jewels worn by Hellas, on the dayShe grew from girlhood into wisdom gay;And hath laid by her crozier, evermoreWith both hands gathering to enrich her store,And make her courts with music ring alway.Love her, for that the world is in her heart,Man's rude antiquity and doubtful goal,The heaven-enthralling luxury of art,The burden'd pleading of his clay-bound soul,The mutual office of delight and dole,The merry laugh of youth, the joy of lifeOlder than thought, and the unamending strife'Twixt liberty and politic control.There is none holier, not the lilied townBy Arno, whither the spirit of Athens fled,Escap't from Hades to a less renown,Yet joyful to be risen from the dead;Nor she whose wide imperious arms were spreadTo spoil mankind, until the avenger cameIn darkening storm, and left a ruin'd name,A triple crown, upon a vanquish't head.What love in myriad hearts in every climeThe vision of her beauty calls to pray'r:Where at his feet Himâlaya sublimeHolds up aslope the Arabian floods, or where{392}Patriarchal Nile rears at his watery stair;In the broad islands of the Antipodes,By Esperanza, or in the coral seasWhere Buddha's vain pagodas throng the air;Or where the chivalry of Nipon smoteThe wily Muscovite, intent to creepAround the world with half his pride afloat,And sent his battle to the soundless deep;Or with our pilgrim-kin, and them that reapThe prairie-corn beyond cold LabradorTo California and the Alaskan shore,Her exiled sons their pious memory keep:Bright memories of young poetic pleasureIn free companionship, the loving stressOf all life-beauty lull'd in studious leisure,When every Muse was jocund with excessOf fine delight and tremulous happiness;The breath of an indolent unbridled June,When delicate thought fell from the dreamy moon:But now strange care, sorrow, and grief oppress.'Ah! fewer tears shall be,—'tis thus they dream,—Ah, fewer, softer tears, when we lie low:On younger brows shall brighter laurel gleam:Lovelier and earlier shall the rosebuds blow.'For in this hope she nurs'd them, and to knowThat Truth, while men regard a tetter'd page,Leaps on the mountains, and from age to ageReveals the dayspring's inexhausted glow.Yet all their joy is mingled with regret:As the lone scholar on a neighbouring height,Brooding disconsolate with eyelids wetEre o'er the unkind world he took his flight,{393}Look'd down upon her festal lamps at night,And while the far call of her warning bellReach't to his heart, sang us his fond farewell,Beneath the stars thinking of lost delight;'Farewell! for whether we be young or old,Thou dost remain, but we shall pass away:Time shall against himself thy house uphold,And build thy sanctuary from decay;Children unborn shall be thy pride and stay.May Earth protect thee, and thy sons be true;And God with heavenly food thy life renew,Thy pleasure and thy grace from day to day.'
17IN MEMORY OF THE OLD-ETONIANSWHOSE LIVES WERE LOST IN THE S. AFRICAN WARAn ode set to music by Sir Hubert Parry and performed whenK. Edward VII inaugurated the Memorial Hall atEton CollegeIResound! Resound! To jubilant music ring!Your birthday trumpets sound the alarm of strenuous days.Ye new-built walls, awake! and welcome England's KingWith a high GLORY-TO-GOD, and holy cheer of praise.Awake to fairest hope of fames unknown, unseen,When ye-too silver and solemn with age shall be:For all that is fair upon earth is reared with tend'rest teen,As the burden'd years to memory flee.{394}IILament, O Muse of the Thames, in pride lament again,With low melodious grief remember them in this hour!—Beyond your dauntless joy, my brother, was our pain.Above all gold, my country, the lavish price of thy power—The ancient groves have mourn'd our sons, for whom no moreThe sisterly kisses of life, the loved embraces.Remember the love of them who came not home from the war,The fatherly tears and the veil'd faces.IIINow henceforth their shrine is builded, high and vast,Alway drawing noble hearts to noble deeds;In the toil of glory to be, and the tale of glory past:While ever the laughing waves of youth pass over the meads,And the tongue of Hellas is heard, and old Time slumbereth lightIn the cradle of Peace. O let thy dancing feetRoam in our land and abide, dear Peace, thou child of Right,Giver of happiness, gentle and sweet.
18ODE TO MUSICWRITTEN FOR THE BICENTENARY COMMEMORATION OFHENRY PURCELLMusic composed by Sir Hubert Parry, and performed at theLeeds Festival and Commemoration Festival inLondon, 1895IMyriad-voiced Queen, Enchantress of the air,Bride of the life of man! With tuneful reed,With string and horn and high-adoring quireThy welcome we prepare.In silver-speaking mirrors of desire,{395}In joyous ravishment of mystery draw thou near,With heavenly echo of thoughts, that dreaming lieChain'd in unborn oblivion drear,Thy many-hearted grace restoreUnto our isle our own to be,And make again our Graces three.IITurn, O return! In merry EnglandFoster'd thou wert with infant Liberty.Her gloried oaks, that standWith trembling leaves and giant heartDrinking in beauty from the summer moon,Her wild-wood once was dear to thee.There the birds with tiny artEarth's immemorial cradle-tuneWarble at dawn to fern and fawn,In the budding thickets making merry;And for their love the primrose faintFloods the green shade with youthful scent.Come, thy jocund spring renewBy hyacinthine lakes of blue:Thy beauty shall enchant the buxom May;And all the summer months shall strew thy way,And rose and honeysuckle rearTheir flowery screens, till under fruit and berryThe tall brake groweth golden with the year.IIIThee fair Poetry oft hath sought,Wandering lone in wayward thought,On level meads by gliding streams,When summer noon is full of dreams:And thy loved airs her soul invade,Haunting retired the willow shade.{396}Or in some walled orchard nookShe communes with her ancient book,Beneath the branches laden low;While the high sun o'er bosom'd snowSmiteth all day the long hill-sideWith ripening cornfields waving wide.There if thou linger all the year,No jar of man can reach thine ear,Or sweetly comes, as when the soundFrom hidden villages around,Threading the woody knolls, is borneOf bells that dong the Sabbath morn.IVIThe sea with melancholy warMoateth about our castled shore;His world-wide elemental moanGirdeth our lives with tragic zone.He, ere men dared his watery path,Fenced them aloof in wrath;Their jealous brotherhoodsSund'ring with bitter floods:Till science grew and skill,And their adventurous willChallenged his boundaries, and went freeTo know the round world, and the seaFrom midday night to midnight sunBinding all nations into one.2Yet shall his storm and mastering waveAssure the empire to the brave;{397}And to his billowy bass belongsThe music of our patriot songs,When to the wind his ridges goIn furious following, careering a-row,Lasht with hail and withering snow:And ever undaunted hearts outrideHis rushing waters wide.3But when the winds fatigued or fledHave left the drooping barks unsped,And nothing stirs his idle plainSave fire-breathed ships with silvery train,While lovingly his waves he layeth,And his slow heart in passion swellsTo the pale moon in heav'n that strayeth,And all his mighty music deepWhispers among the heapèd shells,Or in dark caverns lies asleep;—Then dreams of Peace invite,Haunting our shore with kisses light:Nay—even Love's Paphian Queen hath comeOut of her long retirèd homeTo show again her beauty bright;And twice or thrice in sight hath play'dOf a young lover unaffray'd,And all his verse immortal made.VILove to Love calleth,Love unto Love replieth:From the ends of the earth, drawn by invisible bands,Over the dawning and darkening landsLove cometh to Love.{398}To the pangs of desire;To the heart by courage and mightEscaped from hell,From the torment of raging fire,From the sighs of the drowning main,From shipwreck of fear and pain,From the terror of night.2All mankind by Love shall be bandedTo combat Evil, the many-handed:For the spirit of man on beauty feedeth,The airy fancy he heedeth,He regardeth Truth in the heavenly height,In changeful pavilions of loveliness dight,The sovran sun that knows not the night;He loveth the beauty of earth,And the sweet birds' mirth;And out of his heart there fallethA melody-making riverOf passion, that runneth everTo the ends of the earth and crieth,That yearneth and calleth;And Love from the heart of manTo the heart of man replieth:On the wings of desireLove cometh to Love.VIITo me, to me, fair hearted Goddess, come,To Sorrow come,Where by the grave I linger dumb;With sorrow bow thine head,For all my beauty is dead,{399}Leave Freedom's vaunt and playful thought awhile,Come with thine unimpassioned smileOf heavenly peace, and with thy fourfold choirOf fair uncloying harmonyUnveil the palaces where man's desireKeepeth celestial solemnity.2Lament, fair hearted queen, lament with me:For when thy seer died no song was sung,Nor for our heroes fal'n by land or seaHath honour found a tongue:Nor aught of beauty for their tomb can frameWorthy their noble name.Let Mirth go bare: make mute thy dancing string:With thy majestic consolationSweeten our suffering.Speak thou my woe; that from her painMy spirit arise to see againThe Truth unknown that keeps our faith,The Beauty unseen that bates our breath,The heaven that doth our joy renew,And drinketh up our tears as dew.VIIDIRGEMan born of desireCometh out of the night,A wandering spark of fire,A lonely word of eternal thoughtEchoing in chance and forgot.IHe seeth the sun,He calleth the stars by name,{400}He saluteth the flowers.—Wonders of land and sea,The mountain towersOf ice and airHe seeth, and calleth them fair:Then he hideth his face;—Whence he came to pass awayWhere all is forgot,Unmade—lost for ayeWith the things that are not.2He striveth to know,To unravel the MindThat veileth in horror:He wills to adore.In wisdom he walkethAnd loveth his kind;His labouring breathWould keep evermore:Then he hideth his face;—Whence he came to pass awayWhere all is forgot,Unmade—lost for ayeWith the things that are not.3He dreameth of beauty,He seeks to createFairer and fairerTo vanquish his Fate;No hindrance he—No curse will brook,He maketh a lawNo ill shall be:{401}Then he hideth his face;—Whence he came to pass awayWhere all is forgot,Unmade—lost for ayeWith the things that are not.VIIIRejoice, ye dead, where'er your spirits dwell,Rejoice that yet on earth your fame is bright,And that your names, remember'd day and night,Live on the lips of those who love you well.'Tis ye that conquer'd have the powers of HellEach with the special grace of your delight;Ye are the world's creators, and by mightAlone of Heavenly love ye did excel.Now ye are starry namesBehind the sun ye climbTo light the glooms of TimeWith deathless flames.IXOpen for me the gates of delight,The gates of the garden of man's desire;Where spirits touch'd by heavenly fireHave planted the trees of life.—Their branches in beauty are spread,Their fruit divineTo the nations is given for bread,And crush'd into wine.To thee, O man, the sun his truth hath given,The moon hath whisper'd in love her silvery dreams;Night hath unlockt the starry heaven,The sea the trust of his streams:{402}And the rapture of woodland springIs stay'd in its flying;And Death cannot stingIts beauty undying.Fear and Pity disentwineTheir aching beams in colours fine;Pain and woe forgo their might.After darkness thy leaping sight,After dumbness thy dancing sound,After fainting thy heavenly flight,After sorrow thy pleasure crown'd:O enter the garden of thy delight,Thy solace is found.
XTo us, O Queen of sinless grace,Now at our prayer unveil thy face:Awake again thy beauty free;Return and make our Graces three.And with our thronging strength to the ends of the earthThy myriad-voicèd loveliness go forth,To lead o'er all the world's wide waysGod's everlasting praise,And every heart inspireWith the joy of man in the beauty of Love's desire.
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19A HYMN OF NATUREAN ODE WRITTEN FOR MUSICThe music composed by Sir Hubert Parry, performed atthe Gloucester Festival, 1898IPower eternal, power unknown, uncreate:Force of force, fate of fate.Beauty and light are thy seeing,Wisdom and right thy decreeing,Life of life is thy being.In the smile of thine infinite starry gleam,Without beginning or end,Measure or number,Beyond time and space,Without foe or friend,In the void of thy formless embrace,All things pass as a dreamOf thine unbroken slumber.IIGloom and the night are thine:On the face of thy mirror darkness and terror,The smoke of thy blood, the frost of thy breath.In silence and woful aweThy harrying angels of deathDestroy whate'er thou makest—Makest, destroyest, destroyest and makest.Thy gems of life thou dost squander,{404}Their virginal beauty givest to plunder,Doomest to uttermost regions of age-long iceTo starve and expire:Consumest with glance of fire,Or back to confusion shakestWith earthquake, elemental storm and thunder.IIIIn ways of beauty and peaceFair desire, companion of man,Leadeth the children of earth.As when the storm doth cease,The loving sun the clouds dispelleth,And woodland walks are sweet in spring;The birds they merrily singAnd every flower-bud swelleth.Or where the heav'ns o'erspanThe lonely downsWhen summer is high:Below their breezy crownsAnd grassy steepSpreadeth the infinite smile of the sunlit sea;Whereon the white ships swim,And steal to havens farAcross the horizon dim,Or lie becalm'd upon the windless deep,Like thoughts of beauty and peace,When the storm doth cease,And fair desire, companion of man,Leadeth the children of earth.IVMan, born to toil, in his labour rejoiceth;His voice is heard in the morn:{405}He armeth his hand and sallieth forthTo engage with the generous teeming earth,And drinks from the rocky rillsThe laughter of life.Or else, in crowded cities gathering close,He traffics morn and eveIn thronging market-halls;Or within echoing wallsOf busy arsenalsWeldeth the stubborn iron to engines vast;Or tends the thousand loomsWhere, with black smoke o'ercast,The land mourns in deep glooms.Life is toil, and life is good:There in loving brotherhoodBeateth the nation's heart of fire.Strife! Strife! The strife is strong!There battle thought and voice, and spirits conspireIn joyous dance around the tree of life,And from the ringing choirRiseth the praise of God from hearts in tuneful song.VHark! What spirit doth entreatThe love-obedient air?All the pomp of his delightRevels on the ravisht night,Wandering wilful, soaring fair:There! 'Tis there, 'tis there.Like a flower of primal fireLate redeem'd by man's desire.Away, on wings awayMy spirit far hath flown,{406}To a land of love and peace,Of beauty unknown.The world that earth-born man,By evil undismay'd,Out of the breath of GodHath for his heaven made.Where all his dreams soe'erOf holy things and fairIn splendour are upgrown,Which thro' the toilsome yearsMartyrs and faithful seersAnd poets with holy tearsOf hope have sown.There, beyond power of ill,In joy and blessing crown'd,Christ with His lamp of truthSitteth upon the hillOf everlasting youth,And calls His saints around.VISweet compassionate tearsHave dimm'd my earthly sight,Tears of love, the showers wherewithThe eternal morn is bright:Dews of the heav'nly spheres.With tears my eyes are wet,Tears not of vain regret,Tears of no lost delight,Dews of the heav'nly spheresHave dimm'd my earthly sight,Sweet compassionate tears.{407}VIIGird on thy sword, O man, thy strength endue,In fair desire thine earth-born joy renew.Live thou thy life beneath the making sunTill Beauty, Truth, and Love in thee are one.Thro' thousand ages hath thy childhood run:On timeless ruin hath thy glory been:From the forgotten night of loves fordoneThou risest in the dawn of hopes unseen.Higher and higher shall thy thoughts aspire,Unto the stars of heaven, and pass away,And earth renew the buds of thy desireIn fleeting blooms of everlasting day.Thy work with beauty crown, thy life with love;Thy mind with truth uplift to God above:For whom all is, from whom was all begun,In whom all Beauty, Truth, and Love are one.