^oa -rr UC-NRLF B 2 fiM2 bll The Thames. t^!^.- t-n^ ailj. THE THAMES NEIVDIGATE PRIZE POEM, 1885. BY RICHARD HIPPISLEY DOMENICHETTI, COMMONER OF ORIEL COLLEGE. A. THOMAS SHRIMPTON AND SON. LONDON: S I M P K I N, MARSHALL, A N D C O. 1885. WAN STA» oxford: a. THOMAS SHRIMPTON AND SON. /"A A delicate ripple of sunlight. Quenched in an April gloom ; Faint-fluttering petals, drifted From the latest pale rose-bloom ; A phantom glim?ner of firelight , Revealing a darkened room ; The jewelled mist of a rainbow, When the sun and the rain-storm meet Vibratiojts of exquisite music. As the lute-strings cease to beat ; Things lovely and evanescent. Ah I zuherejore are these things sweet ? 239 Zhc ^bame0. HTHE moon is low o'er all thy silver streams, And thy broad waters, River of my dreams, Dearest beyond earth's rivers all to me ; For from thy crystal well spring to the sea Have I known all thy loveliness, thy birds, Thy flowers, thy waters eloquent as words, And bowery woods, and every bosky dell. Through thee they speak, those spirits who loved thee well, Star-souls that glitter in eternal skies. Is not each haunt a place of memories, A poet-altar lit with godlike flame, A centred glory and a deathless name ? Here Chaucer lived, and faery Spenser sang ; By thee the wizard harp of Shakespeare rang ; Here Pope wrought out, instinct with fire divine, And stiff with classic gold, the splendid line. Not all the ancient streams of other lands Are loved like thee, not Oxus' golden sands ; Nor placid, reedy Mincius lulled to rest By sweet VirgiHan measures, on whose breast The Thames. The Mantuan city slumbers ; nor with still, Vast, sacred waters that from snow-wrapt hill Roll through the idol-crowded cities' roar, Ganges unruffled : nor those mystic four Rivers, that flowed from the prime home of man. Nor yet the waters Babylonian, Eternal amid ruin : nor that vast, Egyptian river, whose tall temples cast Pillared reflections in his sourceless tide ; Though there the flower of England's host has died And their blood flowed for Fatherland and Queen. Dearest of all earth's rivers that have been, Or shall be born, 'twixt foam of sea and sea, River of England, dear o'er all to me ! The moon has paled o'er all thy myriad streams ^ : A silver mist enfolds thee, and faint gleams Of opal fires foretell the dawn of day. Only the low of cattle far away, . Dull thunders of the weir, and sobbing cries Of birds, salute the rose of opening skies. Far ofl" the distance reddens and grows large ; And up the windings toils a lonely barge All dark, save for the dawnfight on the sails. The lark's wild singing, lost in azure, fails, The Thames, \ The soft bells chime, and lo the day is bright ! Ye echoes of departing feet of night, Soft bells and matin songs of waking birds, Let your sweet music echo in my words, Though in faint murmurs, as the curved sea-shell Long parted from the roaring main can tell Its hollow surges and deep ocean sound. This meadow-space is consecrated ground, A haunt, where no rude feet can ever tread. The river iris rears its golden head. With purple loose-strife and pale meadovv-swee^, And waving in the viewless breezes fleet, Delicate bells of faint fritillary. Soft blow the winds from off the sunlit lea. Soft light falls on th' embosomed, grey church towers, And cottage white ; slow pass the sultry hours. And, like swift interchange of light and shade O'er meadow-grasses, so bloom out and fade. Sweeter than dreams that kiss the drooping eye. Pictures of morn and eve, of wave and sky. Where o'er wan river-reaches smooth and deep. In tangled wilderness the lilies sleep. With broad, curved leaves and myriad blossoms blown, Dreaming in silvery mist, at dawn, alone. An odorous, summer evening, dark until The rising moon o'er yonder rounded hill The Thames. Shines, like a silver lamp, that in dim halls, Where all night long the fountain cadence falls. Is lifted to an ivory lattice, slow, Through eastern silks, to Love that sighs below. Tall poplar spires, dark on an evening sky, And dark in the clear waters, that steal by. To fall in veils of pallid foam, beneath The ruined mill, that starry marsh-flowers wreath. A watery waste, at morn, with vivid isles Of meadow, a swollen river, sunken piles : Far off grey spires and wintry lights of dawn. Waters that babble past a summer lawn. Whose sunflecked ripples murmur under-song ; A boat with merry laughter thrust along Into the water-vistas, arched with trees. Hours, happy hours, in happy haunts like these ' To sad hearts, vanquished by the victor years, Their loveliness brings thought too deep for tears. Even as the stag, when hounds are on his side. With swimming eye and failing limb, has tried To gain his well-loved lair of fern and brake : With yearning bhnd he still desires to slake His thirst in that cool fountain of the dell. So by the paths and meadows loved so well, Like long-remembered pulse of wave or light, The unattainable and lost delight TJie Thames, 9 Mocks some worn wanderer who beholds again The grey spires, and clear streams, and emerald plain. He hears the laughter ring in ancient halls, Reckless of him : once more his footstep falls On sacred stones, the while through cloisters pale The organ-thunders echo, and then fail : And, like a revelation of dead days, On high he sees the painted windows blaze. Once more he scans the crowded banks, once more He hears the shouting storm along the shore, Crowded with eager faces ; round the bend The tense oars sweep along, and flashing send The boats, Hke lines of light, towards the goal. The old familiar frenzy stirs his soul. Again he grips the oar ; the swift prow flies : One long, strong stroke, one bound, and then the prize ! Or, once again he dreams, at eve he floats Adown the river, bright with passing boats. Loud with the dip of oars. The sunny reach, The deep lock's ebb and flow, the pebbly beach. And summer leisure on the bowery leas, All this, in ecstasy, once more he sees. The generations pass, like yonder river ; They pass, and no man knows their place ; for ever Like gliding waters to dim seas they fall. O'er the drear ocean of past years they call, lo The Thames. The myriad voices of the unnumbered dead. As o'er the salt waste marsh, when skies are red, The hoarse birds pass upon a storm of rain, With sound of wings : afar their sad refrain Is lost in shadowy spaces of the night. Yet, 'mid the eddy of the ages' flight, Rose of the World, thy odours linger still ^ By these grey walls and waters, and they fill The whirl of years, like those sweet names that rang At midnight, when the bards in Argos sang Of Helen, whilst above the stars were bright. In meads where blossomed the narcissus white. Here wild-eyed Shelley wandered at nightfall, And heard, alone, the solemn waters call ; He saw the blue stars pierce their misty veil. And the sky-space aflood with moonlight pale, And moony vapour, as he madly strove To fathom the unfathomable above ; Whilst his soul's compeer and twin spirit, Keats, With weary steps, trod those dark London streets, By this same river and its darkened streams. In alleys, visited by prisoned gleams, His spirit faded, born of light and foam, Whose fancies, fetterless, for ever roam. Like bright birds, through the blossoms of life's bowers. Divided not in death, the same sweet flowers The Thames. n Glory in growing o'er them, where they lie Beneath the purple heavens of Italy. And yet for one the sting of bitter wrong, And life of pain, made resonant those strong. Wild melodies, that seemed but wasted breath. For in the grasp and bitterness of death, ".My name is writ in water," was his cry ; Nay ! with new thunders as the days go by, Adown life's stream it echoes evermore ! He knew thee not, where thy green meadow-shore, River of England, glimmers in the wave ; But where at last thy sunless waters lave The Titan arches stretched from strand to strand, Where lofty roofs frown dark on either hand, And heaven has wrapt them in a veil of gloom. There he had marked thee, like a river of doom, Roll Lethe-wise, through dim gigantic i:)iles, Where o'er black formless bridges e'er defiles A crowd of hunted spirits with hurrying pace : And corpse-like, with a cere-cloth on the face, A pallid sun in sulphurous air lies dead. The forges, opening, glare a lurid red : And, high in air, with ghostly colonnades And cloud-dark dome, the great cathedral fades. Emblem of earth's best lives, that glass the heaven And gather fulness, in stern silence, even 12 The Thames. Though, through Death's palaces and darkened sky, They broaden out into eternity ! Yon frowning pile, grim fortress of despair, How many dreams have died, lives withered there ! From out the ages comes a bitter cry, The blood that pleads for vengeance to the sky. Dear have the heavens been o'er this drear place, Dear to the tear-stained, pale, upturned face The small blue jewel of th' imprisoned light. Thou sombre portal, entry of dark night ! Full many a weary one, amid the gloom. Has in the torch glare known thee for his doom. How many, innocent,' defying Fate, Have hailed thee, falsely named The Traitor Gate ! As, on that summer morn, the martyr More ^, Heard the stern summons by his garden shore At Chelsea, light of heart that he was found Worthy to suffer, and at last be crowned. The ways are foul, and dusky lanes uncoil, Like serpents, on these shores of sin and toil. From the broad glare of the unpitying street, The wretched wanderer stumbles, with worn feet. Through these close paths of hell, and prays to die. Where children weep, past haunts of infamy The Thames. 13 She staggers on, and only knows that fate Makes life one huge intolerable weight. Within the shadow of the bridge's piers She crouches, and, dry-eyed, feels vanished years With fierce reiteration of dull pain Flash and vibrate upon her weary brain. Poor, sin-stained soul, her mother's angel face Panting she sees, and hours of sweet disgrace. The dark, unfathomed, river's silent breast Lures her to dreamless slumber and to rest. One last despairing look, a downward leap, A plash, a ripple, and on the waters sweep. Enigma dark, defying human eye ! Shall all this sorrow and sin be born and die. And ever, like some loathsome under-stream Flow on, beneath life's glitter and false gleam. To shores made barren with the waste of life ? No answer ! save the waters' turbid strife. And yet, I know, beyond this is the sea, And like God's love, the dawn's infinity. The mighty city's heart beats here : the flow And ebb of thy dark waters are its slow Pulsations, echoes of its deep unrest. The riches of the world are on thy breast : 14 The Thames, The flags of all the nations are unfurled Above thy waters, haven of a world. O'er southern seas and tracts of northern foam, They bring the wonders of far regions home \ Where seaweeds golden wave in violet deeps, Or where in storm th' Atlantic billow sweeps. Nor to that city, by the southern seas, Did the Venetian treasures bring like these, When his dark galleons bare dim-fretted ore To her pale ocean domes and fairy shore. And one there was who, with strange alchemy, Imaged the purple of that southern sky, The jewelled glimmer of those Adrian waves, And faint-hued marbles that their sea-spray laves. The bridge of sighs, phantasmal domes, and night Drawn o'er them like a veil of dim delight. Was it this glory of his spirit that cast ^ Its mantle o'er thee, golden with the past, And touched our northern city, and sullen stream, With magic wand and colours of his dream ? His spirit, who loved the spaces of the sky, And dipt his brush in all those lights that die, At mom and eve. In thee he saw again The lone canals ; heard here the sad refrain. The Thames. 15 As the dark gondolas, in long array, Came up with song from out the setting day. This vast cathedral height, at morn recalls ' San Marco's gilded dome and pictured walls j Like fountains after rain reborn, he sees Her sea-girt pinnacles and palaces. Lonely, by this great river, he loved at dawn To watch the faint, dove-coloured mist withdrawn From spire and roof, until the noon's full might Smote on the fluttering sails ; a strange delight And deeper thrilled him, when with cloud and flame The sunset and his inspiration came. Till the dull canvas glowed with pictured fire, And airy spaces, at his heart's desire : As, where through flamelike coruscating air, At sunset, that old warship Temeraire, A glimmering ghost of victory, from the west, Passes through light and trouble to night and rest. Or through a fairy cove Ulysses steers ^ His golden galley, and, with derision, hears The blinded Cyclops roar ; while water sprites Play round his sails, in rainbow-coloured lights. These, and strange glories, calm and ocean storm, He imaged, as the lake the mountain's form Mirrors, in silence and apart, until Darkness has sunk on mere, and vale, and hill. > The Thames. At last, the days had dawned and set in gloom ' : No ray for him in the dark narrow room, Where his life faded, like a lamp that dies. Only one morning brake a last sunrise, The longed-for radiance through the casement fell ; And in the glories he had loved so well. With sudden spasm of splendour, his spirit fled. From all the lives, that wither and are dead, We glean remembrance of their joy and pain, Life-odours ; as, years after, once again The weary woman with sad eyes turns o'er The faded flowers of love, that lives no more. The sun flames o'er the city and is red. And the mists thicken and the day is dead, And cluster the dim stars, above that pile Of white moon-imagery and long dark aisle, Where in his shadowy minster, amid faint ^ Twilight, and carving rich lies England's saint. Night's anodyne scarce stills the hot heart-beats Of human labour in the million streets : Only in magic sleep and woven beams Low-murmuring now the gladdened river dreams And I, too, dream, as from the phantom years Old memories rise, as star on star appears. The Thames. 17 This scriptured column, still defying time ^, And fraught with memories of names sublime, For ages buried in Egyptian sand, Where hot winds pass athwart a lurid land. From Nile serene, o'er ocean storms, has come To this great city of noise, its northern home. What visions from thy storied calmness rise, Of marble glittering under lucid skies, The beauty loved with love infatuate, The doom of passion and the jealous hate, How with uplifted needle firm and fine Vindictive Fulvia pierced the tongue divine, That oft had stirred the Forum's ocean-praise ; And how when, after long voluptuous days. She greeted Death, the swarth Egyptian Queen, A-dreaming of the passion that had been In those long midnight revels, when with flame. And song and cymbals, her gold galleys came. And ancient Nile grew bright with starry fires. Far past that monument of dead desires. Past long dark wharves, and rushing through black piers. Triumphantly, the hurrying river nears Loud ocean, and deep calleth out to deep. The white stars die, and on the waters sweep 1 8 The Thames. In broader tide ; the ships like ghosts steal by, And ocean scents drift upward, as draw nigh A sound of many waters, and a light From verge to verge of dawning infinite. % NOTES. ^ **The Thames at and about Oxford forms a complete network of streams." — Book of the Thames. 2 Fair Rosamond was buried in the Nuns' House at Godstow, the ruins of which yet e.xist. The first line of the inscription runs thus, "Hie jacet, in tomba, Rosa Mundi non Rosamonda." ^ '* A Royal mandate bade More repair to Lambeth. The sum- mons was, as he knew, simply a summons to death. ' I thank the Lord,' More said, with a sudden start, as the boat dropped silently down the river from his garden steps at Chelsea in the early morn- ing, *! thank the Lord that the field is won,'" — Green's History cf England. * The name of Turner is specially connected with the Thames. * Etty, writing from Italy, says of the Thames, — ** I love to watch its ebb and flow. It has associations with life not unedifying. I like it, too, on another score. Looking from Lambeth to West- minster Abbey, it is not unlike Venice, " * ** Ulysses deriding Polyphemus," ^ He found genuine pleasure, during his closing days, in watch- ing the sunrise and sunset from the flat roof of his Chelsea Cottage, The weather was cloudy and dark during his last illness, and he pined to see the sun again. A little before his death he was found prostrate on the floor. The sun shone forth" -at last, filling the chamber of death with his light. * The body of St. Edward the Confessor still rests in West- minster Abbey. ' 'Cleopatra's Needle,' now on the Thames Embankment. (.)