15The north wind came up yesternightWith the new year's full moon,And rising as she gained her height,Grew to a tempest soon.Yet found he not on heaven's faceA task of cloud to clear;There was no speck that he might chaseOff the blue hemisphere,Nor vapour from the land to drive:The frost-bound country heldNought motionable or alive,That 'gainst his wrath rebelled.There scarce was hanging in the woodA shrivelled leaf to reave;{316}No bud had burst its swathing hoodThat he could rend or grieve:Only the tall tree-skeletons,Where they were shadowed all,Wavered a little on the stones,And on the white church-wall.—Like as an artist in his mood,Who reckons all as nought,So he may quickly paint his nude,Unutterable thought:So Nature in a frenzied hourBy day or night will showDim indications of the powerThat doometh man to woe.Ah, many have my visions been,And some I know full well:I would that all that I have seenWere fit for speech to tell.—And by the churchyard as I came,It seemed my spirit passedInto a land that hath no name,Grey, melancholy and vast;Where nothing comes: but Memory,The widowed queen of Death,Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eyeAll slumber banisheth.Each grain of writhen dust, that drapesThat sickly, staring shore,Its old chaotic change of shapesRemembers evermore.And ghosts of cities long decayedAnd ruined shrines of FateGather the paths, that Time hath madeFoolish and desolate.{317}Nor winter there hath hope of spring,Nor the pale night of day,Since the old king with scorpion stingHath done himself away.The morn was calm; the wind's last breathHad fal'n: in solemn hushThe golden moon went down beneathThe dawning's crimson flush.
16NORTH WIND IN OCTOBERIn the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all;From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall:The beech scatters her ruddy fire;The lime hath stripped to the cold,And standeth naked above her yellow attire:The larch thinneth her spireTo lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.Out of the golden-green and whiteOf the brake the fir-trees stand uprightIn the forest of flame, and wave aloftTo the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail,As the harrying North-wind bearethA cloud of skirmishing hailThe grievèd woodland to smite:In a hurricane through the trees he teareth,Raking the boughs and the leaves rending,And whistleth to the descendingBlows of his icy flail.Gold and snow he mixeth in spite,And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flightHe passeth, and all again for awhile is bright.
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17FIRST SPRING MORNINGA CHILD'S POEM.Look! Look! the spring is come:O feel the gentle air,That wanders thro' the boughs to burstThe thick buds everywhere!The birds are glad to seeThe high unclouded sun:Winter is fled away, they sing,The gay time is begun.Adown the meadows greenLet us go dance and play,And look for violets in the lane,And ramble far awayTo gather primroses,That in the woodland grow,And hunt for oxlips, or if yetThe blades of bluebells show:There the old woodman gruffHath half the coppice cut,And weaves the hurdles all day longBeside his willow hut.We'll steal on him, and thenStartle him, all with gleeSinging our song of winter fledAnd summer soon to be.
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18A VILLAGERThere was no lad handsomer than Willie wasThe day that he came to father's house:There was none had an eye as soft an' blueAs Willie's was, when he came to woo.To a labouring life though bound thee be,An' I on my father's ground live free,I'll take thee, I said, for thy manly grace,Thy gentle voice an' thy loving face.'Tis forty years now since we were wed:We are ailing an' grey needs not to be said:But Willie's eye is as blue an' softAs the day when he wooed me in father's croft.Yet changed am I in body an' mind,For Willie to me has ne'er been kind:Merrily drinking an' singing with the menHe 'ud come home late six nights o' the se'n.An' since the children be grown an' goneHe 'as shunned the house an' left me lone:An' less an' less he brings me inOf the little he now has strength to win.The roof lets through the wind an' the wet,An' master won't mend it with us in 's debt:An' all looks every day more worn,An' the best of my gowns be shabby an' torn.No wonder if words hav' a-grown to blows;That matters not while nobody knows:For love him I shall to the end of life,An' be, as I swore, his own true wife.{320}An' when I am gone, he'll turn, an' seeHis folly an' wrong, an' be sorry for me:An' come to me there in the land o' blissTo give me the love I looked for in this.
19Weep not to-day: why should this sadness be?Learn in present fearsTo o'ermaster those tearsThat unhindered conquer thee.Think on thy past valour, thy future praise:Up, sad heart, nor faintIn ungracious complaint,Or a prayer for better days.Daily thy life shortens, the grave's dark peaceDraweth surely nigh,When good-night is good-bye;For the sleeping shall not cease.Fight, to be found fighting: nor far awayDeem, nor strange thy doom.Like this sorrow 'twill come,And the day will be to-day.
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ECLOGUE ITHE MONTHS
BASIL AND EDWARDMan hath with man on earth no holier bondThan that the Muse weaves with her dreamy thread:Nor e'er was such transcendent love more fondThan that which Edward unto Basil led,Wandering alone across the woody shiresTo hear the living voice of that wide heart,To see the eyes that read the world's desires,And touch the hand that wrote the roving rhyme.Diverse their lots as distant were their homes,And since that early meeting, jealous TimeKnitting their loves had held their lives apart.But now again were these fine lovers metAnd sat together on a rocky hillLooking upon the vales of Somerset,Where the far sea gleam'd o'er the bosky combes,Satisfying their spirits the livelong dayWith various mirth and revelation dueAnd delicate intimacy of delight,As there in happy indolence they layAnd drank the sun, while round the breezy heightBeneath their feet rabbit and listless eweNibbled the scented herb and grass at will.{324}Much talked they at their ease; and at the lastSpoke Edward thus, ''Twas on this very hillThis time of the year,—but now twelve years are past,—That you provoked in verse my younger skillTo praise the months against your rival song;And ere the sun had westered ten degreesOur rhyme had brought him thro' the Zodiac.Have you remembered?'—Basil answer'd back,'Guest of my solace, how could I forget?Years fly as months that seem'd in youth so long.The precious life that, like indifferent gold,Is disregarded in its worth to holdSome jewel of love that God therein would set,It passeth and is gone.'—'And yet not all,'Edward replied: 'The passion as I pleaseOf that past day I can to-day recall;And if but you, as I, remember yetYour part thereof, and will again rehearse,For half an hour we may old Time outwit.'And Basil said, 'Alas for my poor verse!What happy memory of it still enduresWill thank your love: I have forgotten it.Speak you my stanzas, I will ransom yours.Begin you then as I that day began,And I will follow as your answers ran.'JANUARYEd.The moon that mounts the sun's deserted way,Turns the long winter night to a silver day;But setteth golden in face of the solemn sightOf her lord arising upon a world of white.FEBRUARYBa.I have in my heart a vision of spring begunIn a sheltering wood, that feels the kiss of the sun:And a thrush adoreth the melting day that diesIn clouds of purple afloat upon saffron skies.{325}MARCHEd.Now carol the birds at dawn, and some new layAnnounceth a homecome voyager every day.Beneath the tufted sallows the streamlet thrillsWith the leaping trout and the gleam of the daffodils.APRILBa.Then laugheth the year; with flowers the meads are bright;The bursting branches are tipped with flames of light:The landscape is light; the dark clouds flee above,And the shades of the land are a blue that is deep as love.MAYEd.But if you have seen a village all red and oldIn cherry-orchards a-sprinkle with white and gold,By a hawthorn seated, or a witch-elm flowering high,A gay breeze making riot in the waving rye!JUNEBa.Then night retires from heaven; the high winds goA-sailing in cloud-pavilions of cavern'd snow.O June, sweet Philomel sang thy cradle-lay;In rosy revel thy spirit shall pass away.JULYEd.Heavy is the green of the fields, heavy the treesWith foliage hang, drowsy the hum of beesIn the thund'rous air: the crowded scents lie low:Thro' tangle of weeds the river runneth slow.AUGUSTBa.A reaper with dusty shoon and hat of strawOn the yellow field, his scythe in his armës braw:Beneath the tall grey trees resting at noonFrom sweat and swink with scythe and dusty shoon.{326}SEPTEMBEREd.Earth's flaunting flower of passion fadeth fairTo ripening fruit in sunlit veils of the air,As the art of man makes wisdom to glorifyThe beauty and love of life born else to die.OCTOBERBa.On frosty morns with the woods aflame, down, downThe golden spoils fall thick from the chestnut crown.May Autumn in tranquil glory her riches spend,With mellow apples her orchard-branches bend.NOVEMBEREd.Sad mists have hid the sun, the land is forlorn:The plough is afield, the hunter windeth his horn.Dame Prudence looketh well to her winter stores,And many a wise man finds his pleasure indoors.DECEMBERBa.I pray thee don thy jerkin of olden time,Bring us good ice, and silver the trees with rime;And I will good cheer, good music and wine bestow,When the Christmas guest comes galloping over the snow.Thus they in verse alternate sang the yearFor rabbit shy and listless ewe to hear,Among the grey rocks on the mountain greenBeneath the sky in fair and pastoral scene,Like those Sicilian swains, whose doric tongueAfter two thousand years is ever young,—Sweet the pine's murmur, and, shepherd, sweet thy pipe,—Or that which gentle Virgil, yet unripe,Of Tityrus sang under the spreading beechAnd gave to rustic clowns immortal speech,By rocky fountain or on flowery mead{327}Bidding their idle flocks at will to feed,While they, retreated to some bosky glade,Together told their loves, and as they playedSang what sweet thing soe'er the poet feigned:But these were men when good Victoria reigned,Poets themselves, who without shepherd gearEach of his native fancy sang the year.
ECLOGUE IIGIOVANNI DUPRÈ
LAWRENCE AND RICHARDLAWRENCELook down the river—against the western sky—The Ponte Santa Trinità—what throngSlowly trails o'er with waving banners high,With foot and horse! Surely they bear alongThe spoil of one whom Florence honoureth:And hark! the drum, the trumpeting dismay,The wail of the triumphal march of death.RICHARD'Twill be the funeral of Giovánn DuprèWending to Santa Croce. Let us goAnd see what relic of old splendour cheersThe dying ritual.LAWRENCEThey esteem him wellTo lay his bones with Michael Angelo.Who might he be?RICHARDHe too a sculptor, oneWho left a work long to resist the years.LAWRENCEYou make me question further.{328}RICHARDI can tellAll as we walk. A poor woodcarver's son,Prenticed to cut his father's rude designs(We have it from himself), maker of shrines,In his mean workshop in Siena dreamed;And saw as gods the artists of the earth,And long'd to stand on their immortal shore,And be as they, who in his vision gleam'd,Dowering the world with grace for evermore.So, taxing rest and leisure to one aim,The boy of single will and inbred skillRose step by step to academic fame.LAWRENCEDo I not know him then? His figures fillThe tympana o'er Santa Croce's gate;In the museum too, his Cain, that standsA left-handed discobolos....RICHARDSo greatHis vogue, that elder art of classic worthWent to the wall to give his statues room;And last—his country's praise could do no more—He cut the stone that honoured good Cavour.LAWRENCEI have seen the things.RICHARDHe, finding in his handsHis life-desire possest, fell not in gloom,Nor froth'd in vanity: his Sabbath earn'dHe look'd to spend in meditative rest:So laying chisel by, he took a penTo tell his story to his countrymen,And prove (he did it) that the flower of all,Rarest to attain, is in the power of all.{329}LAWRENCEYet nought he ever made, that I have learn'd,In wood or stone deserved, nay not his best,The Greek or Tuscan name for beautiful.'Twas level with its praise, had force to pullFavour from fashion.RICHARDYet he made one thingWorthy of the lily city in her spring;For while in vain the forms of beauty he aped,A perfect spirit in himself he shaped;And all his lifetime doing less than wellWhere he profess'd nor doubted to excel,Now, where he had no scholarship, but drewHis art from love, 'twas better than he knew:And when he sat to write, lo! by him stoodThe heavenly Muse, who smiles on all things good;And for his truth's sake, for his stainless mind,His homely love and faith, she now grew kind,And changed the crown, that from the folk he got,For her green laurel, and he knew it not.LAWRENCEAh! Love of Beauty! This man then mistookAmbition for her?RICHARDIn simplicityErring he kept his truth; and in his bookThe statue of his grace is fair to see.LAWRENCEThen buried with their great he well may be.RICHARDAnd number'd with the saints, not among themWho painted saints. Join we his requiem.
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ECLOGUE IIIFOURTH OF JUNE AT ETON
RICHARD AND GODFREYRICHARDBeneath the wattled bank the eddies swarmIn wandering dimples o'er the shady pool:The same their chase as when I was at school;The same the music, where in shallows warmThe current, sunder'd by the bushy isles,Returns to join the main, and struggles freeAbove the willows, gurgling thro' the piles:Nothing is changed, and yet how changed are we!—What can bring Godfrey to the Muses' bower?GODFREYWhat but brings you? The festal day of the year;To live in boyish memories for an hour;See and be seen: tho' you come seldom here.RICHARDDread of the pang it was, fear to beholdWhat once was all myself, that kept me away.GODFREYYou miss new pleasures coveting the old.RICHARDThey need have prudence, who in courage lack;'Twas that I might go on I looked not back.GODFREYOf all our company he, who, we say,Fruited the laughing flower of liberty!{331}RICHARDAh! had I my desire, so should it be.GODFREYNay, but I know this melancholy mood;'Twas your poetic fancy when a boy.RICHARDFor Fancy cannot live on real food:In youth she will despise familiar joyTo dwell in mournful shades; as they grow real,Then buildeth she of joy her far ideal.GODFREYAnd so perverteth all. This stream to meSings, and in sunny ripples lingeringlyThe water saith 'Ah me! where have I lept?Into what garden of life? what banks are these,What secret lawns, what ancient towers and trees?Where the young sons of heav'n, with shouts of playOr low delighted speech, welcome the day,As if the poetry of the earth had sleptTo wake in ecstasy. O stay me! alas!Stay me, ye happy isles, ere that I passWithout a memory on my sullen courseBy the black city to the tossing seas!'RICHARDSo might this old oak say 'My heart is sere;With greater effort every year I forceMy stubborn leafage: soon my branch will crack,And I shall fall or perish in the wrack:And here another tree its crown will rear,And see for centuries the boys at play:And 'neath its boughs, on some fine holiday,Old men shall prate as these.' Come see the game.{332}GODFREYYes, if you will. 'Tis all one picture fair.RICHARDMade in a mirror, and who looketh thereMust see himself. Is not a dream the same?GODFREYLife is a dream.RICHARDAnd you, who say it, seemDreaming to speak to a phantom in a dream.
4ELEGYTHE SUMMER-HOUSE ON THE MOUNDHow well my eyes remember the dim path!My homing heart no happier playground hath.I need not close my lids but it appearsThrough the bewilderment of forty yearsTo tempt my feet, my childish feet, betweenIts leafy walls, beneath its arching green;Fairer than dream of sleep, than Hope more fairLeading to dreamless sleep her sister Care.There grew two fellow limes, two rising trees,Shadowing the lawn, the summer haunt of bees,Whose stems, engraved with many a russet scarFrom the spear-hurlings of our mimic war,Pillar'd the portico to that wide walk,A mossy terrace of the native chalkFashion'd, that led thro' the dark shades aroundStraight to the wooden temple on the mound.There live the memories of my early days,There still with childish heart my spirit plays;{333}Yea, terror-stricken by the fiend despairWhen she hath fled me, I have found her there;And there 'tis ever noon, and glad suns bringAlternate days of summer and of spring,With childish thought, and childish faces bright,And all unknown save but the hour's delight.High on the mound the ivied arbour stood,A dome of straw upheld on rustic wood:Hidden in fern the steps of the ascent,Whereby unto the southern front we went,And from the dark plantation climbing free,Over a valley look'd out on the sea.That sea is ever bright and blue, the skySerene and blue, and ever white ships lieHigh on the horizon steadfast in full sail,Or nearer in the roads pass within hail,Of naked brigs and barques that windbound rideAt their taut cables heading to the tide.There many an hour I have sat to watch; nay, nowThe brazen disk is cold against my brow,And in my sight a circle of the seaEnlarged to swiftness, where the salt waves flee,And ships in stately motion pass so nearThat what I see is speaking to my ear:I hear the waves dash and the tackle strain,The canvas flap, the rattle of the chainThat runs out thro' the hawse, the clank of the winchWinding the rusty cable inch by inch,Till half I wonder if they have no care,Those sailors, that my glass is brought to bearOn all their doings, if I vex them notOn every petty task of their rough lotPrying and spying, searching every craftFrom painted truck to gunnel, fore and aft,—{334}Thro' idle Sundays as I have watch'd them leanLong hours upon the rail, or neath its screenProne on the deck to lie outstretch'd at length,Sunk in renewal of their wearied strength.But what a feast of joy to me, if someFast-sailing frigate to the Channel comeBack'd here her topsail, or brought gently upLet from her bow the splashing anchor drop,By faint contrary wind stay'd in her cruise,ThePhaethonor dancingArethuse,Or some immense three-decker of the line,Romantic as the tale of Troy divine;Ere yet our iron age had doom'd to fallThe towering freeboard of the wooden wall,And for the engines of a mightier MarsClipp'd their wide wings, and dock'd their soaring spars.The gale that in their tackle sang, the waveThat neath their gilded galleries dasht so braveLost then their merriment, nor look to playWith the heavy-hearted monsters of to-day.One noon in March upon that anchoring groundCame Napier's fleet unto the Baltic bound:Cloudless the sky and calm and blue the sea,As round Saint Margaret's cliff mysteriously,Those murderous queens walking in Sabbath sleepGlided in line upon the windless deep:For in those days was first seen low and blackBeside the full-rigg'd mast the strange smoke-stack,And neath their stern revolv'd the twisted fan.Many I knew as soon as I might scan,The heavyRoyal George, theAcrebright,TheHogueandAjax, and could name arightOthers that I remember now no more;But chief, her blue flag flying at the fore,{335}With fighting guns a hundred thirty and one,The Admiral shipThe Duke of Wellington,Whereon sail'd George, who in her gig had flownThe silken ensign by our sisters sewn.The iron Duke himself,—whose soldier fameTo England's proudest ship had given her name,And whose white hairs in this my earliest sceneHad scarce more honour'd than accustom'd been,—Was two years since to his last haven past:I had seen his castle-flag to fall half-mastOne morn as I sat looking on the sea,When thus all England's grief came first to me,Who hold my childhood favour'd that I knewSo well the face that won at Waterloo.But now 'tis other wars, and other men;—The year that Napier sail'd, my years were ten—Yea, and new homes and loves my heart hath found:A priest has there usurped the ivied mound,The bell that call'd to horse calls now to prayers,And silent nuns tread the familiar stairs.Within the peach-clad walls that old outlaw,The Roman wolf, scratches with privy paw.
5O Love, I complain,Complain of thee often,Because thou dost softenMy being to pain:Thou makest me fearThe mind that createth,That loves not nor hatethIn justice austere;{336}Who, ere he make one,With millions toyeth,And lightly destroyethWhate'er is begun.An' wer't not for thee,My glorious passion,My heart I could fashionTo sternness, as he.But thee, Love, he madeLest man should defy him,Connive and outvie him,And not be afraid:Nay, thee, Love, he gaveHis terrors to cover,And turn to a loverHis insolent slave.
6THE SOUTH WINDThe south wind rose at dusk of the winter day,The warm breath of the western seaCircling wrapp'd the isle with his cloke of cloud,And it now reach'd even to me, at dusk of the day,And moan'd in the branches aloud:While here and there, in patches of dark space,A star shone forth from its heavenly place,As a spark that is borne in the smoky chase;And, looking up, there fell on my face—Could it be drops of rainSoft as the wind, that fell on my face?Gossamers light as threads of the summer dawn,{337}Suck'd by the sun from midmost calms of the main,From groves of coral islands secretly drawn,O'er half the round of earth to be driven,Now to fall on my faceIn silky skeins spun from the mists of heaven.Who art thou, in wind and darkness and soft rainThyself that robest, that bendest in sighing pinesTo whisper thy truth? that usest for signsA hurried glimpse of the moon, the glance of a starIn the rifted sky?Who art thou, that with thee IWoo and am wooed?That robing thyself in darkness and soft rainChoosest my chosen solitude,Coming so farTo tell thy secret again,As a mother her child, in her folding armOf a winter night by a flickering fire,Telleth the same tale o'er and o'erWith gentle voice, and I never tire,So imperceptibly changeth the charm,As Love on buried ecstasy buildeth his tower,—Like as the stem that beareth the flowerBy trembling is knit to power;—Ah! long agoIn thy first rapture I renounced my lot,The vanity, the despondency and the woe,And seeking thee to knowWell was 't for me, and evermoreI am thine, I know not what.For me thou seekest ever, me wondering a dayIn the eternal alternations, meFree for a stolen moment of chanceTo dream a beautiful dream{338}In the everlasting danceOf speechless worlds, the unsearchable scheme,To me thou findest the way,Me and whomsoe'erI have found my dream to shareStill with thy charm encircling; even to-nightTo me and my love in darkness and soft rainUnder the sighing pines thou comest again,And staying our speech with mystery of delight,Of the kiss that I give a wonder thou makest,And the kiss that I take thou takest.
7I climb the mossy bank of the glade:My love awaiteth me in the shade.She holdeth a book that she never heedeth:In Goddës work her spirit readeth.She is all to me, and I to her:When we embrace, the stars confer.O my love, from beyond the skyI am calling thy heart, and who but I?Fresh as love is the breeze of June,In the dappled shade of the summer noon.Catullus, throwing his heart away,Gave fewer kisses every day.Heracleitus, spending his youthIn search of wisdom, had less of truth.Flame of fire was the poet's desire:The thinker found that life was fire.O my love! my song is done:My kiss hath both their fires in one.
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8To my love I whisper, and sayKnowest thou why I love thee?—Nay:Nay, she saith; O tell me again.—When in her ear the secret I tell,She smileth with joy incredible—Ha! she is vain—O nay—Then tell us!—Nay, O nay.But this is in my heart,That Love is Nature's perfect art,And man hath got his fancy hence,To clothe his thought in forms of sense.Fair are thy works, O man, and fairThy dreams of soul in garments rare,Beautiful past compare,Yea, godlike when thou hast the skillTo steal a stir of the heavenly thrill:But O, have care, have care!'Tis envious even to dare:And many a fiend is watching wellTo flush thy reed with the fire of hell.
9My delight and thy delightWalking, like two angels white,In the gardens of the night:My desire and thy desireTwining to a tongue of fire,Leaping live, and laughing higher;{340}Thro' the everlasting strifeIn the mystery of life.Love, from whom the world begun,Hath the secret of the sun.Love can tell, and love alone,Whence the million stars were strewn,Why each atom knows its own,How, in spite of woe and death,Gay is life, and sweet is breath:This he taught us, this we knew,Happy in his science true,Hand in hand as we stoodNeath the shadows of the wood,Heart to heart as we layIn the dawning of the day.
10SEPTUAGESIMANow all the windows with frost are blinded,As punctual day with greedy smileLifts like a Cyclops evil-mindedHis ruddy eyeball over the isle.In an hour 'tis paled, in an hour ascendedA dazzling light in the cloudless grey.Steel is the ice; the snow unblendedIs trod to dust on the white highway.The lambkins frisk; the shepherd is meltingDrink for the ewes with a fire of straw:The red flames leap at the wild air peltingBitterly thro' the leafless shaw.{341}Around, from many a village steepleThe sabbath-bells hum over the snow:I give a blessing to parson and peopleAcross the fields as away I go.Over the hills and over the meadowsGay is my way till day be done:Blue as the heaven are all the shadows,And every light is gold in the sun.
11The sea keeps not the Sabbath day,His waves come rolling evermore;His noisy toil grindeth the shore,And all the cliff is drencht with spray.Here as we sit, my love and I,Under the pine upon the hill,The sadness of the clouded sky,The bitter wind, the gloomy roar,The seamew's melancholy cryWith loving fancy suit but ill.We talk of moons and cooling suns,Of geologic time and tide,The eternal sluggards that abideWhile our fair love so swiftly runs,Of nature that doth half consentThat man should guess her dreary schemeLest he should live too well contentIn his fair house of mirth and dream:Whose labour irks his ageing heart,His heart that wearies of desire,Being so fugitive a partOf what so slowly must expire.{342}She in her agelong toil and carePersistent, wearies not nor stays,Mocking alike hope and despair.—Ah, but she too can mock our praise,Enchanted on her brighter days,Days, that the thought of grief refuse,Days that are one with human art,Worthy of the Virgilian muse,Fit for the gaiety of Mozart.
12Riding adown the country lanesOne day in spring,Heavy at heart with all the painsOf man's imagining:—The mist was not yet melted quiteInto the sky:The small round sun was dazzling white,The merry larks sang high:The grassy northern slopes were laidIn sparkling dew,Out of the slow-retreating shadeTurning from sleep anew:Deep in the sunny vale a burnRan with the lane,O'erhung with ivy, moss and fernIt laughed in joyful strain:And primroses shot long and lushTheir cluster'd cream;Robin and wren and amorous thrushCarol'd above the stream:{343}The stillness of the lenten airCall'd into soundThe motions of all life that wereIn field and farm around:So fair it was, so sweet and bright,The jocund SpringAwoke in me the old delightOf man's imagining,Riding adown the country lanes:The larks sang high.—O heart! for all thy griefs and painsThou shalt be loth to die.
13PATER FILIOSense with keenest edge unusèd,Yet unsteel'd by scathing fire;Lovely feet as yet unbruisèdOn the ways of dark desire;Sweetest hope that lookest smilingO'er the wilderness defiling!Why such beauty, to be blightedBy the swarm of foul destruction?Why such innocence delighted,When sin stalks to thy seduction?All the litanies e'er chauntedShall not keep thy faith undaunted.I have pray'd the sainted MorningTo unclasp her hands to hold thee;From resignful Eve's adorningStol'n a robe of peace to enfold thee;With all charms of man's contrivingArm'd thee for thy lonely striving.{344}Me too once unthinking Nature,—Whence Love's timeless mockery took me,—Fashion'd so divine a creature,Yea, and like a beast forsook me.I forgave, but tell the measureOf her crime in thee, my treasure.
14NOVEMBERThe lonely season in lonely lands, when fledAre half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sunIs rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed;The short days pass unwelcomed one by one.Out by the ricks the mantled engine standsCrestfallen, deserted,—for now all handsAre told to the plough,—and ere it is dawn appearThe teams following and crossing far and near,As hour by hour they broaden the brown bandsOf the striped fields; and behind them firk and pranceThe heavy rooks, and daws grey-pated dance:As awhile, surmounting a crest, in sharp outline(A miniature of toil, a gem's design,)They are pictured, horses and men, or now near byAbove the lane they shout lifting the share,By the trim hedgerow bloom'd with purple air;Where, under the thorns, dead leaves in huddle liePacked by the gales of Autumn, and in and outThe small wrens glideWith a happy note of cheer,And yellow amorets flutter above and about,Gay, familiar in fear.{345}And now, if the night shall be cold, across the skyLinnets and twites, in small flocks helter-skelter,All the afternoon to the gardens fly,From thistle-pastures hurrying to gain the shelterOf American rhododendron or cherry-laurel:And here and there, near chilly setting of sun,In an isolated tree a congregationOf starlings chatter and chide,Thickset as summer leaves, in garrulous quarrel:Suddenly they hush as one,—The tree top springs,—And off, with a whirr of wings,They fly by the scoreTo the holly-thicket, and there with myriads moreDispute for the roosts; and from the unseen nationA babel of tongues, like running water unceasing,Makes live the wood, the flocking cries increasing,Wrangling discordantly, incessantly,While falls the night on them self-occupied;The long dark night, that lengthens slow,Deepening with Winter to starve grass and tree,And soon to bury in snowThe Earth, that, sleeping 'neath her frozen stole,Shall dream a dream crept from the sunless poleOf how her end shall be.
15WINTER NIGHTFALLThe day begins to droop,—Its course is done:But nothing tells the placeOf the setting sun.{346}The hazy darkness deepens,And up the laneYou may hear, but cannot see,The homing wain.An engine pants and humsIn the farm hard by:Its lowering smoke is lostIn the lowering sky.The soaking branches drip,And all night throughThe dropping will not ceaseIn the avenue.A tall man there in the houseMust keep his chair:He knows he will never againBreathe the spring air:His heart is worn with work;He is giddy and sickIf he rise to go as farAs the nearest rick:He thinks of his morn of life,His hale, strong years;And braves as he may the nightOf darkness and tears.
16Since we loved,—(the earth that shookAs we kissed, fresh beauty took)—Love hath been as poets paint,Life as heaven is to a saint;All my joys my hope excel,All my work hath prosper'd well,All my songs have happy been,O my love, my life, my queen.
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17When Death to either shall come,—I pray it be first to me,—Be happy as ever at home,If so, as I wish, it be.Possess thy heart, my own;And sing to the child on thy knee,Or read to thyself aloneThe songs that I made for thee.
18WISHESI wish'd to sing thy grace, but noughtFound upon earth that could compare:Some day, maybe, in heaven, I thought,—If I should win the welcome there,—There might I make thee many a song:But now it is enough to sayI ne'er have done our life the wrongOf wishing for a happier day.
19A LOVE LYRICWhy art thou sad, my dearest?What terror is it thou fearest,Braver who art than IThe fiend to defy?Why art thou sad, my dearest?And why in tears appearest,Closer than I that wertAt hiding thy hurt?{348}Why art thou sad, my dearest,Since now my voice thou hearest?Who with a kiss restoreThy valour of yore.
20ΕΡΩΣWhy hast thou nothing in thy face?Thou idol of the human race,Thou tyrant of the human heart,The flower of lovely youth that art;Yea, and that standest in thy youthAn image of eternal Truth,With thy exuberant flesh so fair,That only Pheidias might compare,Ere from his chaste marmoreal formTime had decayed the colours warm;Like to his gods in thy proud dress,Thy starry sheen of nakedness.Surely thy body is thy mind,For in thy face is nought to find,Only thy soft unchristen'd smile,That shadows neither love nor guile,But shameless will and power immense,In secret sensuous innocence.O king of joy, what is thy thought?I dream thou knowest it is nought,And wouldst in darkness come, but thouMakest the light where'er thou go.Ah yet no victim of thy grace,None who e'er long'd for thy embrace,Hath cared to look upon thy face.
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21THE FAIR BRASSAn effigy of brassTrodden by careless feetOf worshippers that pass,Beautiful and complete,Lieth in the sombre aisleOf this old church unwreckt,And still from modern styleShielded by kind neglect.It shows a warrior arm'd:Across his iron breastHis hands by death are charm'dTo leave his sword at rest,Wherewith he led his menO'ersea, and smote to hellThe astonisht Saracen,Nor doubted he did well.Would wé could teach our sonsHis trust in face of doom,Or give our bravest onesA comparable tomb:Such as to look on shrivesThe heart of half its care;So in each line survivesThe spirit that made it fair;So fair the characters,With which the dusty scroll,That tells his title, stirsA requiem for his soul.{350}Yet dearer far to me,And brave as he are they,Who fight by land and seaFor England at this day;Whose vile memorials,In mournful marbles gilt,Deface the beauteous wallsBy growing glory built:Heirs of our antique shrines,Sires of our future fame,Whose starry honour shinesIn many a noble nameAcross the deathful days,Link'd in the brotherhoodThat loves our country's praise,And lives for heavenly good.
22THE DUTEOUS HEARTSpirit of grace and beauty,Whom men so much miscall:Maidenly, modest duty,I cry thee fair befall!Pity for them that shun thee,Sorrow for them that hate,Glory, hath any won theeTo dwell in high estate!But rather thou delightestTo walk in humble ways,Keeping thy favour brightestUncrown'd by foolish praise;{351}In such retirement dwelling,Where, hath the worldling been,He straight returneth tellingOf sights that he hath seen,Of simple men and truestFaces of girl and boy;The souls whom thou enduestWith gentle peace and joy.Fair from my song befall thee,Spirit of beauty and grace!Men that so much miscall theeHave never seen thy face.
23THE IDLE FLOWERSI have sown upon the fieldsEyebright and Pimpernel,And Pansy and Poppy-seedRipen'd and scatter'd well,And silver Lady-smockThe meads with light to fill,Cowslip and Buttercup,Daisy and Daffodil;King-cup and Fleur-de-lysUpon the marsh to meetWith Comfrey, Watermint,Loose-strife and Meadowsweet;And all along the streamMy care hath not forgotCrowfoot's white galaxyAnd love's Forget-me-not:{352}And where high grasses waveShall great Moon-daisies blink,With Rattle and Sorrel sharpAnd Robin's ragged pink.Thick on the woodland floorGay company shall be,Primrose and HyacinthAnd frail Anemone,Perennial Strawberry-bloom,Woodsorrel's pencilled veil,Dishevel'd Willow-weedAnd Orchis purple and pale,Bugle, that blushes blue,And Woodruff's snowy gem,Proud Foxglove's finger-bellsAnd Spurge with milky stem.High on the downs so bare,Where thou dost love to climb,Pink Thrift and Milkwort are,Lotus and scented Thyme;And in the shady lanesBold Arum's hood of green,Herb Robert, Violet,Starwort and Celandine;And by the dusty roadBedstraw and Mullein tall,With red ValerianAnd Toadflax on the wall,Yarrow and Chicory,That hath for hue no like,Silene and Mallow mildAnd Agrimony's spike,{353}Blue-eyed VeronicasAnd grey-faced ScabiousAnd downy SilverweedAnd striped Convolvulus:Harebell shall haunt the banks,And thro' the hedgerow peerWithwind and SnapdragonAnd Nightshade's flower of fear.And where men never sow,Have I my Thistles set,Ragwort and stiff WormwoodAnd straggling Mignonette,Bugloss and Burdock rankAnd prickly Teasel high,With Umbels yellow and white,That come to kexes dry.Pale Chlora shalt thou find,Sun-loving Centaury,Cranesbill and Sinjunwort,Cinquefoil and Betony:Shock-headed Dandelion,That drank the fire of the sun:Hawkweed and Marigold,Cornflower and Campion.Let Oak and Ash grow strong,Let Beech her branches spread;Let Grass and Barley throngAnd waving Wheat for bread;Be share and sickle brightTo labour at all hours;For thee and thy delightI have made the idle flowers.{354}But now 'tis Winter, child,And bitter northwinds blow,The ways are wet and wild,The land is laid in snow.
24DUNSTONE HILLA cottage built of native stoneStands on the mountain-moor alone,High from man's dwelling on the wideAnd solitary mountain-side,The purple mountain-side, where allThe dewy night the meteors fall,And the pale stars musically setTo the watery bells of the rivulet,And all day long, purple and dun,The vast moors stretch beneath the sun,The wide wind passeth fresh and hale,And whirring grouse and blackcock sail.Ah, heavenly Peace, where dost thou dwell?Surely 'twas here thou hadst a cell,Till flaming Love, wandering astrayWith fury and blood, drove thee away.—Far down across the valley deepThe town is hid in smoky sleep,At moonless nightfall wakening slowUpon the dark with lurid glow:Beyond, afar the widening viewMerges into the soften'd blue,Cornfield and forest, hill and stream,Fair England in her pastoral dream.{355}To one who looketh from this hillLife seems asleep, all is so still:Nought passeth save the travelling shadeOf clouds on high that float and fade:Nor since this landscape saw the sunMight other motion o'er it run,Till to man's scheming heart it cameTo make a steed of steel and flame.Him may you mark in every valeMoving beneath his fleecy trail,And tell whene'er the motions dieWhere every town and hamlet lie.He gives the distance life to-day,Rushing upon his level'd wayFrom man's abode to man's abode,And mocks the Roman's vaunted road,Which o'er the moor purple and dunStill wanders white beneath the sun,Deserted now of men and loneSave for this cot of native stone.There ever by the whiten'd wallStandeth a maiden fair and tall,And all day long in vacant dreamWatcheth afar the flying steam.
25SCREAMING TARNThe saddest place that e'er I sawIs the deep tarn above the innThat crowns the mountain-road, wherebyOne southward bound his way must win.{356}Sunk on the table of the ridgeFrom its deep shores is nought to see:The unresting wind lashes and chillsIts shivering ripples ceaselessly.Three sides 'tis banked with stones aslant,And down the fourth the rushes grow,And yellow sedge fringing the edgeWith lengthen'd image all arow.'Tis square and black, and on its faceWhen noon is still, the mirror'd skyLooks dark and further from the earthThan when you gaze at it on high.At mid of night, if one be there,—So say the people of the hill—A fearful shriek of death is heard,One sudden scream both loud and shrill.And some have seen on stilly nights,And when the moon was clear and round,Bubbles which to the surface swamAnd burst as if they held the sound.—'Twas in the days ere hapless CharlesLosing his crown had lost his head,This tale is told of him who keptThe inn upon the watershed:He was a lowbred ruin'd manWhom lawless times set free from fear:One evening to his house there rodeA young and gentle cavalier.With curling hair and linen fairAnd jewel-hilted sword he went;The horse he rode he had ridden far,And he was with his journey spent.{357}He asked a lodging for the night,His valise from his steed unbound,He let none bear it but himselfAnd set it by him on the ground.'Here's gold or jewels,' thought the host,'That's carrying south to find the king.'He chattered many a loyal word,And scraps of royal airs gan sing.His guest thereat grew more at easeAnd o'er his wine he gave a toast,But little ate, and to his roomCarried his sack behind the host.'Now rest you well,' the host he said,But of his wish the word fell wide;Nor did he now forget his sonWho fell in fight by Cromwell's side.Revenge and poverty have broughtFull gentler heart than his to crime;And he was one by nature rude,Born to foul deeds at any time.With unshod feet at dead of nightIn stealth he to the guest-room crept,Lantern and dagger in his hand,And stabbed his victim while he slept.But as he struck a scream there came,A fearful scream so loud and shrill:He whelm'd the face with pillows o'er,And lean'd till all had long been still.Then to the face the flame he heldTo see there should no life remain:—When lo! his brutal heart was quell'd:'Twas a fair woman he had slain.{358}The tan upon her face was paint,The manly hair was torn away,Soft was the breast that he had pierced;Beautiful in her death she lay.His was no heart to faint at crime,Tho' half he wished the deed undone.He pulled the valise from the bedTo find what booty he had won.He cut the straps, and pushed withinHis murderous fingers to their theft.A deathly sweat came o'er his brow,He had no sense nor meaning left.He touched not gold, it was not cold,It was not hard, it felt like flesh.He drew out by the curling hairA young man's head, and murder'd fresh;A young man's head, cut by the neck.But what was dreader still to see,Her whom he had slain he saw again,The twain were like as like can be.Brother and sister if they were,Both in one shroud they now were wound,—Across his back and down the stair,Out of the house without a sound.He made his way unto the tarn,The night was dark and still and dank;The ripple chuckling neath the boatLaughed as he drew it to the bank.Upon the bottom of the boatHe laid his burden flat and low,And on them laid the square sandstonesThat round about the margin go.{359}Stone upon stone he weighed them down,Until the boat would hold no more;The freeboard now was scarce an inch:He stripp'd his clothes and push'd from shore.All naked to the middle poolHe swam behind in the dark night;And there he let the water inAnd sank his terror out of sight.He swam ashore, and donn'd his dress,And scraped his bloody fingers clean;Ran home and on his victim's steedMounted, and never more was seen.But to a comrade ere he diedHe told his story guess'd of none:So from his lips the crime returnedTo haunt the spot where it was done.
26THE ISLE OF ACHILLES(FROM THE GREEK)Τὁν φἱλτατὁν σοι παἱδ' ἑμοἱ τ', Ἁχιλλἑαὑψει δὑμους ναἱοντα νησιωτικοὑςΔευκἡν κατ' ἁκτἡν ἑντὁς Εὑξεἱνου πὁρου.Eur. And. 1250.Voyaging northwards by the western strandOf the Euxine sea we came to where the landSinks low in salt morass and wooded plain:Here mighty Ister pushes to the main,Forking his turbid flood in channels threeTo plough the sands wherewith he chokes the sea.{360}Against his middle arm, not many a mileIn the offing of black water is the isleNamed of Achilles, or as Leukê known,Which tender Thetis, counselling aloneWith her wise sire beneath the ocean-waveUnto her child's departed spirit gave,Where he might still his love and fame enjoy,Through the vain Danaan cause fordone at Troy.Thither Achilles passed, and long fulfill'dHis earthly lot, as the high gods had will'd,Far from the rivalries of men, from strife,From arms, from woman's love and toil of life.Now of his lone abode I will unfoldWhat there I saw, or was by others told.There is in truth a temple on the isle;Therein a wooden statue of rude styleAnd workmanship antique with helm of lead:Else all is desert, uninhabited;Only a few goats browse the wind-swept rocks,And oft the stragglers of their starving flocksAre caught and sacrificed by whomsoe'er,Whoever of chance or purpose hither fare:About the fence lie strewn their bleaching bones.But in the temple jewels and precious stones,Upheapt with golden rings and vials lie,Thankofferings to Achilles, and thereby,Written or scratch'd upon the walls in view,Inscriptions, with the givers' names thereto,Some in Romaic character, some Greek,As each man in the tongue that he might speakWrote verse of praise, or prayer for good to come,To Achilles most, but to Patroclus some;For those who strongly would Achilles moveApproach him by the pathway of his love.{361}Thousands of birds frequent the sheltering shrine,The dippers and the swimmers of the brine,Sea-mew and gull and diving cormorant,Fishers that on the high cliff make their hauntSheer inaccessible, and sun themselvesHuddled arow upon the narrow shelves:—And surely no like wonder e'er hath beenAs that such birds should keep the temple clean;But thus they do: at earliest dawn of dayThey flock to sea and in the waters play,And when they well have wet their plumage light,Back to the sanctuary they take flightSplashing the walls and columns with fresh brine,Till all the stone doth fairly drip and shine,When off again they skim asea for moreAnd soon returning sprinkle steps and floor,And sweep all cleanly with their wide-spread wings.From other men I have learnt further things.If any of free purpose, thus they tell,Sail'd hither to consult the oracle,—For oracle there was,—they sacrificedSuch victims as they brought, if such sufficed,And some they slew, some to the god set free:But they who driven from their course at seaChanced on the isle, took of the goats thereonAnd pray'd Achilles to accept his own.Then made they a gift, and when they had offer'd once,If to their question there was no response,They added to the gift and asked again;Yea twice and more, until the god should deignAnswer to give, their offering they renew'd;Whereby great riches to the shrine ensued.And when both sacrifice and gifts were madeThey worship'd at the shrine, and as they pray'd{362}Sailors aver that often hath been seenA man like to a god, of warrior mien,A beauteous form of figure swift and strong;Down on his shoulders his light hair hung longAnd his full armour was enchast with gold:While some, who with their eyes might nought behold,Say that with music strange the air was stir'd;And some there are, who have both seen and heard:And if a man wish to be favour'd more,He need but spend one night upon the shore;To him in sleep Achilles will appearAnd lead him to his tent, and with good cheerShow him all friendliness that men desire;Patroclus pours the wine, and he his lyreTakes from the pole and plays the strains thereonWhich Cheiron taught him first on Pelion.These things I tell as they were told to me,Nor do I question but it well may be:For sure I am that, if man ever was,Achilles was a hero, both becauseOf his high birth and beauty, his country's call,His valour of soul, his early death withal,For Homer's praise, the crown of human art;And that above all praise he had at heartA gentler passion in her sovran sway,And when his love died threw his life away.