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NEW POEMS 
 
By the same Autlwr. 
 
 ON VIOL AND FLUTE : Lyrical Poems. 
 Second Edition. 1876. 
 
 KING ERIK : a Tragedy. 1876. 
 
 STUDIES IN THE LITERATURE OF 
 NORTHERN EUROPE. With a Frontispiece, 
 Designed and Etched by Alma Tadema. 1879. 
 
NEW POEMS 
 
 EDMUND W. GOSSE 
 
 LONDON 
 C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., i PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 1879 
 
^7 3<^ 
 
 ( The rights, of translation and of reproduction are reserved) 
 
TO 
 
 MY FRIEND 
 
 HAMO THORNYCROFT 
 
 ffi- 
 
 r 
 V 
 
 < 
 
 SCULPTOR 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Proem x j 
 
 The Gifts of the Muses i 
 
 The Sisters 21 
 
 The Lost Lyre 33 
 
 By the Riyer • • 37 
 
 The Farm 41 
 
 At Dawn 47 
 
 The Loyer and the Waterlily .... 48 
 
 The YVhitethroat 52 
 
 The Maenad's Grave 58 
 
 The Return of the Swallows 60 
 
 The Autumn of the World 64 
 
 Life in Death 67 
 
 Desiderium 70 
 
 The Pipe Player 73 
 
 Verdleigh Coppice 74 
 
 The Praise of Dionysus 84 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Praise of Artemis . ... SS 
 
 Euthanasia 96 
 
 Greece and England 97 
 
 The First Snow ico 
 
 The Suicide 101 
 
 The Burden of Delight 104 
 
 February in Rome 113 
 
 The Golden Isles 114 
 
 Leave-taking 120 
 
 Song 122 
 
 Worship 123 
 
 Winter Green 126 
 
 The Tomb of Sophocles 129 
 
 The Palinode 130 
 
 The Aconite 140 
 
 To my Daughter 141 
 
 Alcyone 144 
 
 The Houseleek 147 
 
 The Suppliant 150 
 
 The Well 151 
 
 Dizain 153 
 
 VlLLANELLES : — 
 
 Would'st thou not be content to die . .• . .154 
 
 Little mistress mine, good-bye . . . . . 155 
 
 Sestina 157 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGL 
 
 ROXDEAU I Go 
 
 ROXDEL l62 
 
 The Ballad of Dead Cities 164 
 
 My own Grave 167 
 
 A Year 174 
 
 Beachy Head 176 
 
 A Winter Jixgle ...... 178 
 
 Dora at the Play 180 
 
 The Loss of the Eurydice - . , iSi 
 
 The Bath . 1S7 
 
 Hans Christian Andersen 188 
 
 Eros 192 
 
 Ox Dartmoor • 194 
 
 May Morning , 196 
 
 Serenade 2<x 
 
 The New Endymion 202 
 
 The Waking of Eurydice 212 
 
 Epilogue . . s;o 
 
PROEM. 
 
 If thou disdain the sacred Muse, 
 Beware lest Nature, past recall, 
 
 Indignant at that crime, refine 
 Thee entrance to her audience-hall, 
 Beware lest sea, and sky, and all 
 
 That bedrs reflection of her face 
 Be blotted with a hueless pall 
 
 Of unillumined commonplace. 
 
 The moving heavens, in rhythmic time, 
 Roll, if thou watch them or refrain; 
 
 The waves upon the shore in rhyme 
 Beat, heedless of thy loss or gain : 
 
PROEM. 
 
 Not they, but thou, hast lived in rain, 
 If thou art deaf and blind and dumb, 
 
 ParcJied in the heart of morning rain, 
 And on the flaming altar numb. 
 
 Ah ! desolate hour when that shall be, 
 
 When dew and sunlight, rain and wind. 
 Shall seem but trivial things to thee, 
 
 Unloved, unheeded, undivined ; 
 
 Nay, rather let that morning find 
 Thy molten soul exhaled and gone, 
 
 Than in a living death resigned 
 So darkly still to labour on. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 Against a platan's root, 
 
 Blowing a rustic flute, 
 Young Daphnis lay, the careless herdsman blithe ; 
 
 His nervous fingers ran 
 
 Along the tuneful span, 
 While languor held his well-shaped limbs and 
 
 lithe ; 
 Down on his head there rained in wayward 
 
 flight 
 A sparkling shower of green reflected light. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 He piped an oaten strain 
 
 Of math and loaded wain, 
 Of harvest-triumphs drawn along the vales ; 
 
 Of songs of wood and hill, 
 
 The frail cicala shrill, 
 And shepherds challenging the nightingales, 
 Of heifers straying among orchard fruits, 
 And wanton kids that gnaw the fig-tree 
 shoots. 
 
 Thoughts of this simple kind 
 
 Held all his pastoral mind, 
 Unlearned in the painful lore of life, 
 
 Song and the flute's bright sound 
 
 Gilded his rustic round 
 Of works and ways, with nature ne'er at strife ; 
 No waters fling their snows down mossy heights 
 More joyously than he his lyric flights. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 Beside him, in the shade, 
 
 Stood tall a rosy maid, 
 The sweet Lycoris of the glistering hair ; 
 
 From baskets hung hard by, 
 
 She piled an altar high 
 With woodland rites and many an artless prayer, 
 Laid roses on it to the Muses nine, 
 And laurel to the Pythian more divine. 
 
 Then soon, her offering done, 
 
 She rested from the sun, 
 Leaning her locks against a leopard's hide ; 
 
 While Daphnis in a dream 
 
 Let slip away the stream 
 Of flute-notes, till their echo wholly died ; 
 Brown head by golden and brown limbs by 
 
 white, 
 Sleep folded round them both its noon-delight. 
 
 B 2 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 But while in sleep they lie, 
 
 The Muses wander by, 
 Serene and stately, with their robes of song ; 
 
 The dewy flowers they found, 
 
 And rustic altar crowned 
 With homely gifts that did their godhead wrong, 
 Yet smiled and took them, turned and smiled 
 
 again 
 To find their suppliants in a drowsy vein. 
 
 Between them passed a sign, 
 
 And one among the Nine 
 Lift up the shepherd's roughly-carven flute, 
 
 And from Lycoris' breast 
 
 Turned back the saffron vest, 
 And, signalling her sisters to be mute, 
 Took thence the humble amulet that lay 
 Close by that virgin heart's pure swing and sway. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 And then they passed from sight, 
 
 Far up the hills of light, 
 Seeking their sire in many an upland lair, — 
 
 With voices hushed and low, 
 
 Lest he should come and go, — 
 Shivering to feel the laurel-scented air, — 
 Trembling lest every stir of wind and tree 
 Should lightly turn to music and be He. 
 
 "bees 
 
 V 
 
 But soon, on the cool ground, 
 
 Lycoris woke and found 
 An opal burning on her zoneless breast, 
 
 And sought in vain to find 
 
 The ring her mother kind 
 Kissed every night before she bade her rest ; 
 New hopes sprang up, new passions dim and 
 
 wild, 
 She rose bewildered and no more a child. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 Out of that shining glade 
 
 Slow passed the dreaming maid, 
 And sought a pool, still as a wingless thought, 
 
 So pensively she fared, 
 
 A drinking hart was scared, 
 And woodwards fled, and yet she knew it not ; 
 Intent in her own imaged form to find 
 The answering echo of her wakening mind. 
 
 And, bending o'er the wave, 
 
 The mirrored shape it gave 
 
 Was taller, fairer than her memory knew ; 
 
 From virgin coif to hem 
 
 The god's gift of the gem 
 
 Flashed mellow radiance, beaming through and 
 through 
 
 Till, shrinking back a little in distress, 
 
 She blushed, oppressed with her own loveliness. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 But soon her pride returned, 
 
 And o'er the pool she burned, 
 Glowing with pleasure at her own fair face, 
 
 And thought no more of him 
 
 Who, through the forest dim, 
 Was fain to vaunt her earlier simple grace ; 
 Who now lay dreaming, while his fingers missed 
 The pipe he often in her praise had kissed. 
 
 So, idly wandering, 
 
 She met a conquering king, 
 High-charioted and garlanded with bays ; 
 
 And, from his fiery hand, 
 
 Took queenship of the land, 
 And sat, his consort, through her length of days, 
 Far-famed for peerless beauty, and the frost 
 Of glittering pomp when love and hope are 
 lost. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 But Daphnis, too, distraught, 
 
 In wakening hands had caught 
 No rustic flute rough-hewn of beech-wood light, 
 
 But, past his whole desire, 
 
 A massive ivory lyre, 
 Gold-strung and meet to hymn a king's delight ; 
 As if a snake had made his hand its nest, 
 He thrust the plectrum from his throbbing 
 breast. 
 
 But soon the sighing chords, 
 
 Half whispered into words, 
 Decoyed his fancy with their wayward charm ; 
 
 Subtle the notes, and strange 
 
 With mystic interchange 
 Of tones that might the wildest heart disarm. 
 He stooped to take the lovely breathing lyre, 
 And, as he touched it, all his soul took fire. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 He tries a pastoral lay 
 
 Of goats that tramp in play, 
 And mar the treasures of the thrifty bee ; 
 
 But ah ! do what he can 
 
 He peals a hymn to Pan, 
 And wakes the woods with dulcet harmony ; 
 Prophetic strains to none before revealed 
 Pour out in music from his lips unsealed. 
 
 Then he arose and went, 
 
 Like one on mission sent, 
 Through many a vine-hung village ol white 
 walls ; 
 
 Singing from door to door, 
 
 As never sang before 
 The deftest minstrel under coronals, — 
 His hair unbound, a common shepherd lad, 
 But for a certain majesty he had. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 Maidens and youths began 
 
 To haunt the tuneful man, 
 Following his lyre and him from town to town, 
 
 And oft when noon was hot, 
 
 In some secluded spot, 
 The bard would turn and bid them all lie down, 
 And then, while in the pine-tops sighed the wind, 
 Some thrilling tale of passion he would find. 
 
 His praises flew before ; 
 
 Men hailed him more and more ; 
 They loaded him with garlands and with gold ; 
 
 Some prayed him to abide 
 
 Still in that country-side, 
 A princely office in the state to hold ; 
 He thanked them, and with level glance severe 
 Passed on ; and they were dumb with shame and 
 fear. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. u 
 
 For yet with all his fame 
 
 Some secret inward flame 
 Fretted his heart, and made him grave and sad ; 
 
 There was no joy or rest 
 
 In that god-haunted breast ; 
 A grand but melancholy face he had, 
 And women gazing as he passed them by' 
 Drew back, lest they should meet his glance and 
 die. 
 
 High up a mountain-side, 
 
 Aweing the champaign wide, 
 The crowning city of that land is set ; 
 
 Olive and poplar meet 
 
 Along its sun-white street, 
 And o'er the joyous folk their branches fret 
 Against the myrtles, dark above the town, 
 The palace of an ancient line looks down. 
 
12 THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 And Daphnis comes at last, 
 
 After long years are past, 
 To smite his lyre before the victor king ; 
 
 The people shout and crowd, 
 
 And call his name aloud, 
 Great poet, first of all that chaunt and sing ! 
 He heeds them not, nor bows his lovely head, 
 But steps like Orpheus through the gibbering 
 dead. 
 
 About his hair he sets 
 
 A wreath of violets, 
 Tears out the cooling lilies from his lyre, 
 
 Reaches the palace door, 
 
 And treads the marble floor, 
 And wins the inmost chamber, fairer, higher, 
 Where deep transparent shadows fall and meet 
 Around the despot on his porphyry seat. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 They gave him ear for song ; 
 
 The courtiers, in a throng, 
 Applauded lightly when the feat was o'er ; 
 
 The king, more apt and wise, 
 
 Vowed, by the Titan's eyes, 
 No loftier ode had reached his sense before, 
 And shouting, swore, for rapture so divine, 
 The queen herself should pour a meed of wine. 
 
 So, with cool fingers white, 
 
 She poured,. like rosy light, 
 The sparkling wine that laughed to see the sun ; 
 
 Gravely she gazed at him 
 
 Across the twinkling brim, 
 And praised the victory over music won, 
 Nor drooped the lids of her large eyes nor sank, 
 When from her hand he took the bowl and 
 drank. 
 
l 4 THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 ' more than queen,' he cried, 
 
 ' Ripe to be deified, 
 The godhead blossoms in those eyes and lips ! 
 
 Each minor mortal star 
 
 Thou dost excel as far 
 As must this opal other gems eclipse ! ' 
 She shuddered inwardly, she knew not why, 
 And silence fell, and they gazed eye to eye. 
 
 So memory stirred in each, 
 
 As, o'er a tideless beach, 
 Some wandering wind may ape the loud sea- 
 wave ; 
 
 Then, in a moment's space, 
 
 Faded from either face 
 The shade of shades that dim remembrance gave. 
 She was a queen, erect and fair and cold, 
 And he a singer to be fee'd with gold. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 15 
 
 Forth from that house he went, 
 
 With face and shoulders bent, 
 Burdened with song and faint with vague desire ; 
 
 Across the glaring street 
 
 He passed, on faltering feet, 
 Into the temple of the Delian Sire, 
 And while the priests around him wondered, he 
 Poured out strange prayer to their great deity. 
 
 * Bitter the laurel leaf ; 
 
 And harsh the barley-shear, 
 Dipped in the blood of Niobe for wine ; 
 
 More sad than any tears 
 
 The weight of rhythmic years ; 
 More fierce than fire the light upon the shrine ; 
 More tense the bow, more fell the shafts by far 
 Than Love's light arrows, though they poisoned 
 are. 
 
1 6 THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 1 Love hath no part in me, 
 
 And hopes before me flee, 
 As from Narcissus fled his own fair face ; 
 
 The morning breaks in vain, 
 
 No pleasure and no pain 
 Its bodiless hours can on my being trace : 
 I am but as thy lyre ! Oh ! let there start 
 Immortal music from this hopeless heart.' 
 
 And then, uplift anew, 
 
 He passed that priesthood through, 
 And sought the light, fading to eventide, 
 
 Within the broad white square 
 
 Stood, flushed with roseate air, 
 While folk came crowding round from far and 
 
 wide, 
 Then made great music to their hearts' delight, 
 Till the stars gathered fire and it was night. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 17 
 
 And so from year to year, 
 
 Like some high upland drear, 
 His lofty spirit and lonely watched the skies, 
 
 While still his lips and hands 
 
 Wrung wonder from all lands, 
 Praise found no echo in his changeless eyes ; 
 Like dawn-struck Memnon by Nile's lonely shore, 
 He poured his music and was stone once more. 
 
 But when his heart was old, 
 
 The people brought their gold, 
 And hewed out marble from the mountains hoar : 
 
 Under their hands arose, 
 
 Slow, as a cedar grows, 
 A glorious palace on the south sea-shore, 
 And there, with slaves and perfumes and fair 
 
 weather, 
 He and his lyre were sorrowful together. 
 c 
 
1 8 THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 One night — so legends say — 
 
 The ancient poet lay, 
 Scaring faint sleep with many a weary thought, 
 
 When, through the pillared gold, 
 
 The curtains, fold on fold, 
 Blew out as though a wind for entrance sought, 
 And all the fragrant lamps were dimly stirred 
 Though no one jncved and not a sound was 
 heard. 
 
 Then, through the deepening night, 
 
 Clouding the lamps with light, 
 Into that house the radiant Pythian came ; 
 
 The majesty he had 
 
 Was self-illumed, and clad 
 In naked beauty like a rose-red flame. 
 He spake and smiled ; so keen, so fierce, so fair, 
 His voice was like a sword and cleft the air. 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 19 
 
 ' Ah ! poet, ah ! my son, 
 
 What meed hast thou not won, 
 Renowned for song through all my spacious 
 realm ! 
 
 Ask now thy best desire; 
 
 I swear, on lips of fire, 
 My bounty shall thy wishes overwhelm ! 
 Ask what thou wilt ; a god before thee stands, 
 With all earth's honours heaped upon his hands.' 
 
 And Daphnis made reply : 
 
 ' See at thy feet I lie, 
 All fame concentres in this brilliant hour ; 
 
 Honours enough, and praise 
 
 Have crowned my length of days, 
 Yet that was but the bud and this the flower ; 
 Give me no more ; but let me dumbly rest, 
 Within thy radiance intimately blest. 
 c 2 
 
THE GIFTS OF THE MUSES. 
 
 1 Yet one request I have, 
 
 And one desire to crave, 
 Since thy serenest godhead holds my fate, 
 
 Give back the homely flute, 
 
 Now long disused and mute, 
 The sovereign Muses stole to make me great ; 
 And oh ! my master, take this lyre again, 
 With all its passion, all its weight of pain ! ' 
 
 But when the full dawn broke, 
 
 And Daphnis stirred nor spoke, 
 The slaves in fear drew back the veils' eclipse ; 
 
 There on the stately bed 
 
 The ancient bard lay dead, 
 A smile still hovering on his curved lips : 
 The lyre they found not, but his fingers tight 
 Were closed upon a flute of beech-wood light. 
 
THE SISTERS. 
 a dorian idyl. 
 
 Philenion. Lysidice. 
 
 lysidice. 
 
 Dearest, the onyx lamp is at thy side, 
 The vine-surrounded casement open wide, 
 And on the floor's mosaic I have set 
 Green sprigs of rue and buds of serpolet, 
 And still the rain upon their leaves is wet. 
 Farewell, farewell, and sing thyself to sleep. 
 
 PHILEXION. 
 
 I fear my dreams will scarce be long or deep. 
 
THE SISTERS. 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 
 Ah ! let me close you, burning eyes and blue ! 
 Melt to a cloud, and film yourselves in dew, 
 Else must I kiss you under either brow ! 
 
 PHILENION. 
 
 I ought to soothe myself to slumber now 
 Were kisses poppies or oblivion love ! 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 
 Yea, soon behind our dear pomegranate grove 
 The large slow-footed moon will glide and set, 
 And all the world its weariness forget. 
 
 PHILENION. 
 
 Bow down once more that little curly head, 
 And lay those soft arms on the saffron bed ; 
 Among the trees, and where the shade is deep, 
 Who comes to-night when all the world's asleep ? 
 
THE SISTERS. 23 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 
 Oh, hush ! he will not see me, will not know 
 That I can hear his footfall there below. 
 
 PHILENION. 
 
 And while thou listenest for his wandering feet, 
 May I not also keep my vigil, sweet ? 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 
 Thou hast no reason, dear, to lie awake ; 
 I seek to sleep but cannot for love's sake. 
 Ah, who has told thee that he comes at night ? 
 I hardly told my heart my heart's delight. 
 He never sees, he never hears me there, 
 I lie, with fluttering pulse, till unaware 
 His presence seems to quicken all the air. 
 Is he not god-like, dear Philenion ? 
 Like Paris when the triple deity shone 
 
24 THE SISTERS. 
 
 Around his face and shoulders in a flame ? 
 
 Like great Adonis when the Cyprian came 
 
 And flushed him with embraces ? Ah ! that smile ! 
 
 I fain for shame must hide my face awhile ! 
 
 Ah ! pity me for love's sake, — since thy breast 
 
 Has no such reason for a sick unrest. 
 
 PHILENION. 
 
 Dear child, young love thinks ever it knows best, 
 And I seem old to thee, and past my time, 
 Five years, forsooth, beyond thy budding prime. 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 
 Last morn he came, and with his arms he led 
 A new-washed lamb with roses round its head ; 
 He seemed to mean the lovely gift for me, 
 But blushed too much my blushing face to see — 
 How sweet it is to tell thee all my woe. 
 
THE SISTERS. - 25 
 
 PHILENION. 
 
 Speak on, nor heed, love, that I tremble so. 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 
 I stole up towards him when his flocks lay down 
 From stress of noontide on the pastures brown ; 
 Before him flashed a distant streak of sea, 
 Behind him rose a whispering tamarisk-tree. 
 I listened close, and, sister, ere he set 
 The laughing calathus his lips to wet, 
 His eyes were sparkling, and — it might not be — 
 I thought he whispered low ' Lysidice ! ' 
 
 PHILENION. 
 
 Behind that tree, and where the olives throw 
 A silver shadow on the leaves below, 
 Say, hast thou been ? 
 
26 THE SISTERS. 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 Yea, where the boughs divide 
 And show, half nestled in the dim hill-side 
 A noiseless and untrampled place of tombs. 
 Thou weepest, sister, for the lamp illumes 
 The shining fringes of those sweetest eyes ? 
 
 PHILENION. 
 
 Ah ! child, thou knowest not what sorrow lies 
 In memory • thou art rich in thy to-day, 
 Let me go silent on a sadder way. 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 
 A burning tear has dropped upon my hand. 
 Have I done ill ? I cannot understand ! 
 
 PHILENION. 
 
 Among the graves that fill that olive shade 
 I wandered once, just such a joyous maid 
 
THE SISTERS. 27 
 
 As thou. Within my circling hands I held 
 A young cicala, who, by song impelled, 
 Struck with his feet the cithern of his wings ; 
 I laughed, inspired by all the amorous things 
 The sacred creature hinted, till I threw 
 Backward my head, and caught against the blue 
 A man's keen face that looked me through and through. 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 
 Let me come nearer, for you whisper low. 
 
 PHILENIOX. 
 
 I spread my fingers, let the wild wings go, 
 Sprang to my feet, and would have fled, but he 
 Was swifter, and his arms encompassed me. 
 Beneath the shade he wooed my fears away, 
 And showed the channel where his shallop lay ; 
 He lived upon the seas. Oh ! strange and sweet 
 To sit at Aphrodite's awful feet ! 
 
28 THE SISTERS. 
 
 Next morn I stole, and laid across her shrine 
 A fillet of these wine-dark locks of mine, 
 An ivy wreath, a grasshopper in gold. 
 She rose from out the tingling foam and cold ; 
 She rules it still, and when I heard the roar 
 Of distant waves I prayed to her the more, 
 But all in vain. 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 
 I too — but, sister, swear, 
 Reveal to none at all my foolish care, — 
 I, too, before the dawn to-day hung up 
 In Aphrodite's shrine my silver cup 
 Engraved with massy combats of old kings. 
 
 PHILENION. 
 
 I pray the gods that with all pleasant things 
 Thy life at all times may be crowned and blest, 
 
THE SISTERS. 29 
 
 May all the sweets into thy cup be pressed 
 That the sad gods forgot in mixing mine. 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 
 Tell me what end came of this love of thine ? 
 
 PHILENION. 
 
 There is but one fixed goal where love may fare 
 And every lover that the world shall bear ; 
 After brief space or lengthened, weal or woe, 
 They downward and in solitude must go 
 Where the Queen sits with poppies round her hair. 
 Brief was our time for passion, scant and rare 
 The hours of pleasure in my life have been. 
 One chill October night when airs were keen, 
 And I within the quiet house began 
 To clear the soft white spinning wool a span 
 Forth from my knees, and thou wert bent to hold 
 The oil-press slowly oozing liquid gold, 
 
30 THE SISTERS. 
 
 Silent, before the fire, we two alone, 
 
 There came out of the dark a wailing moan, — 
 
 His voice in vision, — and I rose, but thou 
 
 Heard'st nothing, and knew'st nothing of my woe. 
 
 I felt that far away at sea his breath 
 
 Had called on mine at the last hour of death, 
 
 And through the thundering foam and roaring 
 
 tide, 
 My heart had heard the whisper as he died. 
 Yea, Aphrodite, to whom sea-wives pray, 
 Had heard my prayer in her own mystic way. 
 
 LYSIDICE. 
 
 Sweetest, I dare not look into thine eyes, 
 So pure and sad, so tender and so wise ; 
 What shall I do to make thy heart forget 
 My foolish hardness ? See, my cheeks are wet 
 With passionate falling of remorseful tears. 
 
THE SISTERS. 31 
 
 PHILENION. 
 
 Thou hast the spring-tide lightness of thy years, 
 
 Sister ! Behold, my arms are open wide, 
 
 Those vain reproaches in this bosom hide ! 
 
 Dream not that life has lost all bliss for me, 
 
 Content to love and live again in thee. 
 
 Fair throbbing head, and flowing wealth of tress, 
 
 Alive in its own glancing loveliness, 
 
 Soft neck, warm hands, and best of all, I know, 
 
 Clear virgin heart fast beating down below, 
 
 These are my loves, and till that sacred hour 
 
 When Love shall crown thee with his mother's flower, 
 
 And I into the strong hands of a man 
 
 Shall give thee, as a sister only can, 
 
 These are my care, and all my life shall be 
 
 Absorbed in conquering thy destiny ; 
 
 What woes the gods may for our heads prepare 
 
 With cheerful countenance and instant prayer 
 
32 THE SISTERS. 
 
 I will prevail that I alone may bear. 
 But when that day of days at last shall dawn 
 When underneath the platan on the lawn 
 Our hands suspend the wreath of dripping buds, 
 Your lotos-garland, starred with multitudes 
 Of nuptial blossoms steeped in rich perfume, 
 When all the maidens throng to view the room 
 Along whose walls the town's best art provides 
 Sweet amorous stories incident to brides, 
 When crowned with hyacinths, a chorus loud, 
 The virgins chaunt thy praises in a crowd, 
 And only hush, when on the ground they pour 
 The fragrant oil, one last libation more, 
 Then, darling, oh ! may I be there to weep 
 Still tears of ecstasy that downward creep, 
 May holy Cypris round thy body twine 
 The sacred girdle of her charm divine, 
 And then may Love, all swallowed up in thee, 
 Forget, yea ! even in dreams, to visit me. 
 
33 
 
 THE LOST LYRE. 
 
 In what deep forest, old and hoar, 
 Untracked, unechoed evermore, 
 Lies wreathed in leaves the ivory lyre 
 
 That Orpheus bore ? 
 For surely still a holy fire 
 
 Its chords respire ! 
 
 Ah ! would that I, with eyes cast down, 
 Might thread those solemn paths and brown, 
 Where endless autumn pines for aye ; 
 
 That moony crown 
 Would win my feet to stir and stray 
 
 On the right way. 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 THE LOST LYRE. 
 
 Till, stooping in that murmurous land, 
 The wonder in my trembling hand 
 Should quiver like a breathing thing, 
 
 And, lightly fanned, 
 Each tremulous immortal string 
 
 Bid me to sing. 
 
 And I should sing ; and round me then 
 All mild-eyed beasts and savage men 
 Would gather softly to adore ; 
 
 The lion's den 
 Stand empty ; and the sullen shore 
 
 Forget to roar. 
 
 But swift before a sunset breeze, 
 Across the dolphin-haunted seas, 
 My lyre and I would seek the dim 
 
 Hesperides, 
 Where fainting crimsons overbrim 
 
 The low sky's rim. 
 
THE LOST LYRE. 35 
 
 For why should men again refuse 
 The lyre's reward, the poet's dues, 
 Should Hebrus bleed again, or hear 
 
 A shrieking Muse ? 
 Nay ! we should spurn the upland drear, 
 
 And seaward steer. 
 
 For lo ! what joy could be to sing 
 To idle men a mystic thing 
 High-poised above their ken or care? 
 
 Let Atys ring 
 His shriller cymbal in mid-air, 
 
 While forth we fare. 
 
 Forth ere the film of living fire 
 Can fade above the dim white lyre, 
 Before the sacred chords grow slack, 
 
 Ere men can tire 
 Of holy song, or tempests' wrack 
 
 Can wave us back. 
 d 2 
 
36 THE LOST LYRE. 
 
 O fruitless dream ! our pensive age 
 Hath hopelessness for heritage, 
 Satiety of song for meed, 
 
 And for the rage 
 Of lyric prophets born to bleed, 
 
 A broken reed. 
 
 A broken reed, and only fit 
 
 For song to make a flute of it, 
 
 To pipe her memories of time past ; 
 
 The sad airs flit 
 Across its wounded side ; 'tis cast 
 
 Away at last. 
 
BY THE RIVER. 
 
 The limpid water passes, 
 And whispers at our feet, 
 
 The worn-out leaves and grasses 
 The west wind's voice repeat ; 
 
 They say the summer goes 
 
 In music to its close. 
 
 The beech-woods high above us 
 Pour down from breezy air, — 
 
 As if in proof they love us, — 
 Deep shadow debonair ; 
 
 They hang aloft and find 
 
 The last faint streams of wind. 
 
38 BY THE J? TVER. 
 
 Below our feet the river, 
 With its old weedy smell, 
 
 Pursues its bent for ever, 
 With no new tale to tell ; 
 
 Its reeds will quiver on 
 
 Till Time is dead and gone. 
 
 And where last year the lily, 
 Unfolding its green bowl, 
 
 Hung in the water stilly 
 Its contemplative soul, 
 
 A younger flower as fair 
 
 Has felt the autumn air. 
 
 In this enchanted leisure 
 The only restless thing 
 
 Is one loose ray of azure, 
 A dragon-fly on wing ; 
 
 The rustling of its flight 
 
 Is like the sound of light. 
 
BY THE RIVER. 39 
 
 I hold your hand, and wonder, 
 
 My dear, if all be true ; 
 Can no power part asunder 
 
 When Love makes one of two ? 
 The powers of nature say 
 In flower and shadow ' Nay ! ' 
 
 Then with the river's blessing, 
 
 And the wood's solemn prayer, 
 And this soft wind caressing 
 
 Our foreheads and our hair, 
 Without a word or sign 
 Lay your sweet mouth to mine. 
 
 And if I faint to feel it, — 
 
 My weak heart beating high, — 
 
 O haste and press, to seal it, 
 Another lest I die ; 
 
 The second kiss will give 
 
 Me strength, and I shall live. 
 
40 BY THE RIVER. 
 
 So when the years before us 
 Pass slowly one by one, 
 
 Till all the gifts they bore us 
 Are ripe beneath the sun, 
 
 When we are old and sere 
 
 Like corn in russet ear, — 
 
 Do thou, my love, remember 
 The sweet still autumn day, 
 
 When time was in September, 
 But passion scarce in May, 
 
 While in a golden dream 
 
 We lay beside the stream ; 
 
 When all bright hours are over 
 That make such speed to pass, 
 
 Forget not thine old lover, 
 The sunshine and the grass ; 
 
 O let not memory miss 
 
 That first enchanted kiss. 
 
41 
 
 Far in the soft warm west 
 There lies an orchard-nest, 
 Where every spring the black-caps come, 
 And build themselves a downy home. 
 
 The apple-boughs entwine, 
 
 And make a network fine 
 Through which the morning vapours pass 
 That rise from off the dewy grass. 
 
 And when the spring-warmth shoots 
 
 Along the apple roots, 
 The gnarled old boughs grow full of buds 
 That gleam and leaf in multitudes. 
 
4 2 
 
 THE FARM. 
 
 And then, first cold and white, 
 Soon flushing with delight, 
 The blossom-heads come out and blow, 
 And mimic sunset-tinted snow. 
 
 Just where my farm-house ends 
 
 A single gable bends, 
 And one small window, ivy-bound, 
 Looks into this enchanted ground. 
 
 I sit there while I write, 
 And dream in the dim light 
 That floods the misty orchard through, 
 A pale-green vapour tinged with blue. 
 
 And watch the growing year, 
 The flowers that spring and peer, 
 The apple-bloom that melts away, 
 The colours of the changing day. 
 
THE FARM. 43 
 
 The falling blossom fills 
 
 The cups of daffodils, 
 That loll their perfume-haunted heads 
 Along the feathery parsley-beds. 
 
 And then the young girls come 
 
 To take the gold flowers home ; 
 They stand there, laughing, lilac-white, 
 Wrthin the orchard's green twilight. 
 
 The rough old walls decay, 
 
 And moulder day by day, 
 The fern-roots tear them, stone by stone, 
 The ivy drags them, overgrown ; 
 
 But still they serve to keep 
 
 This little shrine of sleep 
 Intact for singing birds and bees 
 And lovers no less shy than these. 
 
44 THE FARM. 
 
 Soft perfumes blown my way 
 
 Remind me day by day 
 How spring and summer flowers arrange 
 Their aromatic interchange. 
 
 For, in the still warm night, 
 
 I taste the faint delight 
 Of dim white violets that lie 
 Far down in depths of greenery. 
 
 And from the wild white rose 
 That in my window blows, 
 At dawn an odour pure and fine 
 Comes drifting like the scent of wine. 
 
 I live in flower and tree ; 
 
 My own life seems to me 
 A fading trifle scarcely worth 
 The notice of the jocund earth. 
 
THE FARM. 45 
 
 Nor seems it strange indeed 
 
 To hold the happy creed 
 That all fair things that bloom and die 
 Have conscious life as well as I. 
 
 That not in vain arise 
 
 The speedwell's azure eyes, 
 Like stars upon the river's brink, 
 That shine unseen of us, and sink. 
 
 That not for Man is made 
 
 All colour, light and shade, 
 All beauty ripened out of sight, — 
 But to fulfil its own delight. 
 
 The black-caps croon and swing 
 
 Deep in the night, and sing 
 No songs in which man's life is blent, 
 But to embody their content. 
 
4 6 THE FARM. 
 
 Then let me joy to be 
 Alive with bird and tree, 
 And have no haughtier aim than this 
 To be a partner in their bliss. 
 
 So shall my soul at peace 
 From anxious carping cease, 
 Fed slowly like a wholesome bud 
 With sap of healthy thoughts and good. 
 
 That when at last I die, 
 No praise may earth deny, 
 But with her living forms combine 
 To chant a threnody divine. 
 
47 
 
 AT DAWN. 
 
 All night I tossed without one hour of sleep, 
 Lamenting for the sweet bride torn from me ; 
 But now that in the glimmering east I see 
 
 The saffron-coloured morning upward creep, 
 
 No more for my Rhodanthe would I weep, 
 But rest awhile with poppied lids, if ye, 
 O twittering swallows, would but let me be, 
 
 Nor dart below my eaves with maddening cheep ! 
 
 O swallows, swallows, 'twas not I that clipped 
 The tender tongue of Philomela fair, 
 Not I ! Go shriek for Itylus elsewhere, 
 
 Before the feet of sleep have past me tripped ! 
 
 Who knows ? When I to dreamland shall have slipped, 
 The ghost of my dead love may meet me there ! 
 
4 s 
 
 THE LOVER AND THE WATERL1LY 
 
 One weak willow 
 Just dips her pulseless fingers in the river ; 
 
 We for ever 
 Would make this slope of April grass our pillow ; 
 Where fishes flash and gleam, 
 We idly sit and dream, 
 While idler insects yet, with foot and wing, 
 Fret the still stream and sing. 
 
 Yellow blossom, 
 Come up to daylight from the deep dark water, 
 
 Faint, frail daughter, 
 Shot, perfumed, from thine unseen mother's bosom, 
 
THE LOVER AND THE WATERLILY. 40 
 
 How looks the world to thee, 
 Whose new-born petals see 
 More wonders in the world of earth and sky 
 Than we can till we die ? 
 
 Art thou lonely ? 
 Shoots there no other blossom for thy pleasure ? 
 
 No fair treasure 
 Of leaf and bloom for thee made, and thee only ? 
 Shall pale decay and death 
 Obscure thy fragrant breath, 
 Ere love can win thy heart a little while 
 With one faint passing smile ? 
 
 Ah ! poor flower, 
 If this thing be so, then, though wise in seeming 
 
 Thy pure dreaming, 
 I would not change lives with thee for one hour, 
 
 E 
 
50 THE LOVER AND THE WATERLILY. 
 
 Though, sage beyond a man, 
 Thy leaves have power to scan 
 The scheme of nature, and past wave and sod 
 Glance clearly up to God ! 
 
 I, poor mortal, 
 As weak as thou, and blind where thou art seeing, 
 
 Whose frail being 
 Knocks, darkly groping, at life's outer portal, 
 Have yet one shining star 
 To cheer my heart afar ; — 
 'Tis Love, more sweet than Wisdom, more divine 
 Than any gift of thine. 
 
 This dear Woman, 
 Whose golden head beneath the long wan willow 
 
 Makes its pillow 
 Of this warm grass, so strangely soft and human, 
 
THE LOVER AND THE WATER LILY. 5, 
 
 Content to hold my hand, 
 Cares not to understand 
 Those mysteries that flowers and trees may know 
 A moment ere they go. 
 
5 2 
 
 THE WHITETHROAT. 
 
 AN ESSAY IN CRITICISM. 
 
 I heard the Whitethroat sing 
 
 Last eve at twilight when the wind was dead, 
 
 And her sleek bosom and her fair smooth head 
 
 Vibrated, ruffling, and her olive wing 
 
 Trembled. So soft her song was that it seemed 
 
 As though, in wandering through the copse at noon, 
 
 She must have found the holy bough where dreamed 
 
 The day-struck Nightingale, 
 
 And, listening, must have overheard too soon 
 
 The dim rehearsal of that golden tale 
 
 That greets the laggard moon. 
 
THE WHITETHROAT. 53 
 
 But through the imitative strain, 
 
 Between each gentle cadence, and again 
 
 When those clear notes she tried, for which her 
 
 throat 
 Was not so capable as fain, 
 I joyed to hear her own peculiar note 
 Through all the music float. 
 But when the gentle song, that streamed away, 
 Like some enamoured rivulet that flows 
 Under a night of leaves and flowering may, 
 Died on the stress of its own lovely pain, 
 Even as it died away, 
 It seemed as if no influence could restrain 
 The notes from welling in the Whitethroat's brain ; 
 *But with the last faint chords, on fluttering wing 
 She rose, until she hung in sunset air ; 
 A little way she rose, as if her care 
 Were all to reach the heavens, her radiant goal, 
 Then sank among the leaves. 
 
54 THE WHITETHROAT. 
 
 Pathetic singer ! with no strength to sing, 
 And wasted pinions far too weak to bear 
 The body's weight that mars the singing soul, 
 In wild disorder, see, her bosom heaves ! 
 Scarcely, with quivering plumes, 
 She wins the sparse bough of that tulip-tree, 
 Whose leaves unfinished ape her faulty song, 
 Whose mystic flowers her delicate minstrelsy. 
 But, hark ! how her rich throat resumes 
 Its broken music, and the garden blooms 
 Around her, and the flower that waited long, 
 The vast magnolia, rends its roseate husk, 
 And opens to the dusk ; 
 Odour and song embalm the day's decline. 
 Ah ! pulsing heart of mine, 
 Flattered beyond all judgment by delight, 
 This pleasing harmony, this gentle light, 
 This soft and enervating breeze of flowers, 
 This magic antechamber of the night 
 
THE IVIIITETHROAT. 55 
 
 With florid tapestry of twilight hours, 
 
 Is this enough for thee ? 
 
 Lo ! from the summit of the tulip-tree 
 
 The enamoured Whitethroat answered ' Yes ! O yes !' 
 
 And once again, with passion and the stress 
 
 Of thoughts too tender and too sad to be 
 
 Enshrined in any melody she knew, 
 
 She rose into the air ; 
 
 And then, oppressed with pain too keen to bear, 
 
 Her last notes faded as she downward flew. 
 
 And she was silent. But the night came on ; 
 
 A whisper rose among the giant trees, 
 
 Between their quivering topmost boughs there shone 
 
 The liquid depths of moonlight tinted air ; 
 
 By slow degrees 
 
 The darkness crept upon me unaware. 
 
 The enchanted silence of the hours of dew 
 
 Fell like a mystic presence more and more, 
 
56 THE WHITE! HROAT. 
 
 Aweing the senses. Then I knew, 
 
 But scarcely heard, thrilled through to the brain's 
 
 core, 
 The shrill first prelude of triumphant song, 
 Cleaving the twilight. Ah ! we do thee wrong, 
 Unequalled Philomela, while thy voice 
 We hear not ; every gentle song and clear 
 Seems worthy of thee to our poor noonday choice. 
 But when thy true fierce music, full of pain, 
 And wounded memory, and the tone austere 
 Of antique passion, fills our hearts again, 
 We marvel at our light and frivolous ear. 
 Ah ! how they answer from the woodland glades ! 
 How deep and rich the waves of music pour 
 On night's enchanted shore ! 
 From star-lit alleys where the elm-tree shades 
 The hare's smooth leverets from the moon's distress 
 From pools all silvered o'er, 
 Where water-buds their petals upward press, 
 
THE WHITETHROAT. 57 
 
 Vibrating with the song, and stir, and shed 
 Their inmost perfume o'er their shining bed, 
 Yea, from each copse I hear a bird, 
 As by a more than mortal woe undone, 
 Sing, as no other creature ever sang, 
 Since through the Phrygian forests Atys heard 
 His wild compeers come fluting one by one, 
 Till all the silent uplands rang and rang. 
 
58 
 
 THE M^NAUS GRAVE. 
 
 The girl who once, on Lydian heights, 
 Around the sacred grove of pines, 
 
 Would dance through whole tempestuous nights 
 When no moon shines, 
 
 Whose pipe of lotos featly blown 
 
 Gave airs as shrill as Cotys' own, 
 
 Who, crowned with buds of ivy dark, 
 
 Three times drained deep with amorous lips 
 
 The wine-fed bowl of willow-bark, 
 With silver tips, 
 
 Nor sank, nor ceased, but shouted still 
 
 Like some wild wind from hill to hill, 
 
THE ALENAHS GRAVE. 
 
 She lies at last where poplars wave 
 Their sad gray foliage all day long, 
 
 The river murmurs near her grave 
 A soothing song ; 
 
 Farewell, it saith ! Her days have done 
 
 With shouting at the set of sun. 
 
 59 
 
6o 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. 
 
 1 Out in the meadows the young grass springs, 
 Shivering with sap,' said the larks, ' and we 
 
 Shoot into air with our strong young wings, 
 Spirally up over level and lea ; 
 
 Come, O Swallows, and fly with us 
 
 Now that horizons are luminous ! 
 
 Evening and morning the world of light, 
 Spreading and kindling, is infinite ! ' 
 
 Far away, by the sea in the south, 
 The hills of olive and slopes of fern 
 
 Whiten and glow in the sun's long drouth, 
 Under the heavens that beam and burn ; 
 
THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. 61 
 
 And all the swallows were gathered there 
 Flitting about in the fragrant air, 
 
 And heard no sound from the larks, but flew 
 
 Flashing under the blinding blue. 
 
 Out of the depths of their soft rich throats 
 Languidly fluted the thrushes, and said : 
 ' Musical thought in the mild air floats, 
 Spring is coming and winter is dead ! 
 
 Come, O Swallows, and stir the air, 
 
 For the buds are all bursting unaware, 
 
 And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees long 
 To hear the sound of your low sweet song.' 
 
 Over the roofs of the white Algiers, 
 
 Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar, 
 
 Flitted the swallows, and not one hears 
 
 The call of the thrushes from far, from far ; 
 
62 THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. 
 
 Sighed the thrushes ; then, all at once, 
 Broke out singing the old sweet tones, 
 Singing the bridal of sap and shoot, 
 The tree's slow life between root and fruit. 
 
 But just when the dingles of April flowers 
 
 Shine with the earliest daffodils, 
 When, before sunrise, the cold clear hours 
 
 Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils, — 
 Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried, 
 Perched on a spray by a rivulet-side, 
 
 Swallows, O Swallows, come back again 
 
 To swoop and herald the April rain. 
 
 And something awoke in the slumbering heart 
 Of the alien birds in their African air, 
 
 And they paused, and alighted, and twittered apart, 
 And met in the broad white dreamy square, 
 
THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. 63 
 
 And the sad slave woman, who lifted up 
 From the fountain her broad-lipped earthen cup, 
 Said to herself, with a weary sigh, 
 ' To-morrow the swallows will northward fly ! ' 
 
6 4 
 
 THE AUTUMN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 The last wan petals leave the rose, 
 The latest swallows preen for flight, 
 
 The summer's gone where no one knows, 
 With dead men's love, and spent years' light, 
 And warm hearts buried out of sight. 
 
 Red roses are the crown of youth ; 
 The warm light falls on lovers' lips ; 
 
 Laugh, then, and fondle, happy mouth, 
 But yet, remember, sweet time slips, 
 Death hurries on with full eclipse ! 
 
THE AUTUMN OF THE WORLD. 65 
 
 So short, so sad ! Oh ! let not Death 
 Find only faded flowers and wine, 
 
 When, hungry for the joyous breath 
 That dreams not of the years' decline, 
 He lays his cold white mouth to thine ! 
 
 Cling to the flying hours ; and yet 
 Let one pure hope, one great desire, 
 
 Like song on dying lips, be set, 
 That ere we fall in scattered fire 
 Our hearts may lift the world's heart higher. 
 
 Here in the autumn months of Time, 
 Before the great new year can break, 
 
 Some little way our feet should climb, 
 Some little mark our words should make 
 For liberty and manhood's sake ! 
 
66 THE AUTUMN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Clear brain and sympathetic heart, 
 A spirit on flame with love for Man, 
 
 Hands swift to labour, slow to part, — 
 If any good, since time began, 
 The soul can fashion, such souls can. 
 
 And so when we are dead and past, 
 The undying world will some day reach 
 
 Its glorious hour of dawn at last, 
 And we across time's sunken beach 
 May smile, one moment, each to each. 
 
6 7 
 
 LIFE IN DEATH. 
 
 O sweet for dying hands to hold 
 
 The earliest jonquil pale ; 
 The breath is faint, the lips grow cold 
 As o'er the golden leaves they fold, 
 
 Their odour to inhale. 
 
 Sweet thus upon a flower to die, 
 
 And dream its whole life's dream, 
 Below the cold white roots to lie, 
 To feel the blossom shoot on high, 
 The slow sap gush and stream. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 LIFE IN DEATH. 
 
 Its beauty comes from out of sight ; 
 
 Perchance the spirit goes 
 To win that self-same clime whose light 
 Can make these petals warm and bright 
 
 Before their buds unclose. 
 
 Through death it comes ; 'tis all we know, 
 
 Yet this should bring us gain, — 
 Since such delight from death can flow, 
 We need not shudder when we go 
 Where silence quiets pain. 
 
 Life hems us round on every side, 
 
 Like dim translucent stone ; 
 Its carven walls and floors divide 
 The eternal spaces deep and wide 
 From our aerial cone. 
 
LIFE IN DEATH. 69 
 
 But every year when spring is new 
 
 And tender grass is green, 
 The heavy-scented flowers renew 
 The miracle of death shot through 
 
 By many a chink unseen. 
 
 Dumb messengers, whose only speech 
 
 Is their intense perfume, 
 Out of the infinite they reach 
 Some subtle mystery to teach 
 
 Of hope beyond the tomb. 
 
 Thus, when my mortal days are o'er, 
 
 May Death, no dreadful thing, 
 
 Break through the alabaster floor 
 
 And living spikenard on me pour 
 
 From yellow flowers in spring. 
 
7o 
 
 DESIDERIUM. 
 
 Sit there for ever, dear, and lean 
 
 In marble as in fleeting flesh, 
 Above the tall grey reeds that screen 
 
 The river when the breeze is fresh ; 
 For ever let the morning light 
 Stream down that forehead broad and white, 
 And round that cheek for my delight. 
 
 Already that flushed moment grows 
 So dark, so distant ; through the ranks 
 
 Of scented reed the river flows 
 
 Still murmuring to its willowy banks ; 
 
 But we can never hope to share 
 
 Again that rapture fond and rare, 
 
 Unless you turn immortal there. . 
 
DESIDERIUM. 7* 
 
 There is no other way to hold 
 
 These webs of mingled joy and pain ; 
 
 Like gossamer their threads enfold 
 The journeying heart without a strain, — 
 
 Then break, and pass in cloud or dew, 
 
 And while the ecstatic soul goes through 
 
 Are withered in the parching blue. 
 
 Hold, Time, a little while thy glass, 
 
 And, youth, fold up those peacock wings ! 
 
 More rapture fills the years that pass 
 Than any hope the future brings ; 
 
 Some for to-morrow rashly pray, 
 
 And some desire to hold to-day, 
 
 But I am sick for yesterday. 
 
 Since yesterday the hills were blue 
 
 That shall be gray for evermore, 
 And the fair sunset was shot through 
 
 With colour never seen before ; 
 
72 DESIDERIUM. 
 
 Tyrannic love smiled yesterday, 
 And lost the terrors of his sway, 
 But is a god again to-day. 
 
 Ah ! who will give us back the past ? 
 
 Ah ! woe, that youth should love to be 
 Like this swift Thames that speeds so fast, 
 
 And is so fain to find the sea, — 
 That leaves this maze of shadow and sleep, 
 These creeks down which blown blossoms creep, 
 For breakers of the homeless deep. 
 
 Then sit for ever, dear, in stone, 
 
 As when you turned with half a smile, 
 And I will haunt this islet lone, 
 
 And with a dream my tears beguile ; 
 And in my reverie forget 
 That stars and suns were made to set, 
 That love grows old, or eyes are wet. 
 
THE FJPE-PLAYER. 
 
 Cool, and palm-shaded from the torrid heat, 
 The young brown tenor puts his singing by, 
 And sets the twin pipe to his lips to try 
 
 Some air of bulrush-glooms where lovers meet ; 
 
 O swart musician, time and fame are fleet, 
 Brief all delight, and youth's feet fain to fly ! 
 Pipe on in peace ! To-morrow must we die ? 
 
 What matter, if our life to-day be sweet ! 
 
 Soon, soon, the silver paper-reeds that sigh 
 Along the Sacred River will repeat 
 The echo of the dark-stoled bearers' feet, 
 
 Who carry you, with wailing, where must lie 
 
 Your swathed and withered body, by and by, 
 In perfumed darkness with the grains of wheat. 
 
74 
 
 VERDLEIGH COPPICE. 
 
 Oh the perfumes and the shadows of the pines in Verd- 
 
 leigh Coppice, 
 Straight red boles that catch the sunset as it smoulders 
 
 in the west ! 
 Creamy glint of waving barley, and a scarlet flash of 
 
 poppies, 
 Seen through columns where the evening wind is moan- 
 
 insr to its rest. 
 
 Here it seems the scent is deepest where the wind has 
 
 caught the branches, 
 And a loaded bough lies broken, and the sap has oozed 
 
 to light, 
 
VERDLEIGH COPPICE. 75 
 
 With its golden gums of healing, like the chastened love 
 
 that staunches 
 With the morning's consolation some deep sorrow of the 
 
 night. 
 
 With the piny odour streaming on the wind into my 
 
 senses, 
 I grow flushed with subtle pleasure as an Eastern king 
 
 may do 
 When the odalisque that loves him from her twinkling 
 
 fan dispenses 
 An unceasing breeze of sandal-wood that stirs the 
 
 chamber through. 
 
 And my heart is still from fretting, and my pulse's weary 
 
 fever 
 Settles slowly down to cool and calm vibration of the 
 
 blood ; 
 
76 VERDLEIGH COPPICE. 
 
 I could rest upon the greenness of this mossy couch for 
 
 ever, 
 And become a silent portion of the silence of the 
 
 wood. 
 
 I should feel the sap in spring-tide as a part of my 
 
 existence, 
 And the pure sweet life of blossoms would repeat itself 
 
 in me, 
 Till the old world's course of passion, with its wearisome 
 
 insistence, 
 Should fade back and be forgotten in this milder 
 
 ecstasy. 
 
 Surely all things here are quiet, and this still domain of 
 
 nature 
 Tastes in little all the sweetness of the vanished golden 
 
 age ; 
 
VERDLEIGH COPPICE. 77 
 
 Love enthroned among these pine-trees smiles on every 
 
 sylvan creature, 
 And the pastorals they fashion on this stainless rustic 
 
 stage. 
 
 But among the elms that cluster round the 
 
 up yonder, 
 Where the ladies praise the prospect from the terrace at 
 
 their feet, 
 Like a caged thing sick in exile with a smiling face I 
 
 wander, 
 And with viewless wings the barrier, be it golden, still I 
 
 beat ! 
 
 For the idle jesting frets me, and my heart in its de- 
 jection 
 
 Smiles like Timon with the laughter of a spirit out of 
 tune, 
 
7 8 VERDLEIGH COPPICE. 
 
 At the courtly face-politeness and the cordial mock- 
 affection, 
 
 And the unknown lightless facet of each white revolving 
 moon. 
 
 As the shadows of this pine-copse to a ring of foolish 
 
 faces, 
 As this perfume of the woodland to a faded waft of 
 
 musk, 
 So my heart that leaps with pleasure in all hushed 
 
 sequestered places, 
 To the self-same heart that battles in this world of claw 
 
 and tusk. 
 
 Ah ! warm pines of Verdleigh Coppice, I must hold to 
 
 you for ever, 
 Build my home in you, like Thoreau, be your creature 
 
 . and your child, 
 
VERDLEIGH COPriCE. 79 
 
 Till no vestige of the worldling rest upon my soul to 
 
 sever 
 My enfranchised heart and body from all gentle things 
 
 and wild. 
 
 Here be sure no savage discords break the joyous dia- 
 pason 
 
 Of the vast and secret music of all vocal things and 
 mute, 
 
 Love the sweet birds' only clarion, love the blossoms' 
 only blazon, 
 
 Love the animating purpose in each kindling vein and 
 shoot. 
 
 Hush ! the cruel stoat that rustles in the tangle of the 
 
 brambles, 
 Sleek, with snow-white fangs that languish for the rabbit's 
 
 drip of blood ; — 
 
So VERDLEIGH COPPICE. 
 
 Hush ! the jay with laugh discordant as far up the tree 
 
 he scrambles 
 With a hungry beak to slaughter the soft younglings of 
 
 the wood. 
 
 Hush ! an orange bee floats by me, like a summer wind 
 
 incarnate, 
 But a red flash swoops athwart it and behold it upward 
 
 borne ! 
 'Twas the bright crest of the wood-chat, like the sunlight 
 
 in a garnet, 
 And the writhing bee hangs wretchedly impaled upon a 
 
 thorn. 
 
 See this mastering mass of ivy with an ash-tree bound 
 
 within it, 
 Like a wrestler foiled and strangled, lo ! the friendly 
 
 ash is dead ; 
 
VERD LEIGH COPPICE. Si 
 
 And the ivy bears half-hidden the forlorn nest of a 
 linnet, 
 
 But the rain has drowned the nurselings, and the parent- 
 birds have fled. 
 
 Even here, in Verdleigh Coppice, there can be such 
 
 desolation, 
 Such forgetfulness untender, such a cruel greed and 
 
 rage, 
 Underneath the summer odours nation warring against 
 
 nation, 
 And the gentlest creatures winning bitter pain for 
 
 heritage. 
 
 Not in homes of mankind only, are there silent webs for 
 
 passion, 
 And a smiling garb for sorrow, and a sunny veil for 
 
 grief 
 
 G 
 
S2 VERDLEIGH COPPICE. 
 
 Nature works out her intention in the same unholy 
 
 fashion 
 As her aping firstborn Man does through his foolish day 
 
 and brief. 
 
 Then farewell, sweet Verdleigh Coppice, since I find for 
 
 all the beauty 
 Of thine allies hushed and sombre, of thy glimpses of the 
 
 wheat, 
 Here as elsewhere love resides not, and red rapine is a 
 
 duty, 
 Thou shalt hardly win long sojourn from my restless, 
 
 homeless feet. 
 
 And I learn 'tis best in all things to hold living very 
 
 lightly, 
 Taste the perfumes of the fir-wood, but not linger there 
 
 too long, 
 
VERDLEIGH COPPICE. 83 
 
 Lest the mazes of the forest lead to foulnesses un- 
 sightly, 
 
 And a haunting horror clash upon the night-bird's liquid 
 son.sr. 
 
84 
 
 THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS. 
 
 CHANT ROYAL. 
 
 Behold, above the mountains there is light, 
 A streak of gold, a line of gathering fire, 
 And the dim East hath suddenly grown bright 
 With pale aerial flame, that drives up higher 
 The lurid mists that of the night aware 
 Breasted the dark ravines and coverts bare ; 
 Behold, behold ! the granite gates unclose, 
 And down the vales a lyric people flows, 
 Who dance to music, and in dancing fling 
 Their frantic robes to every wind that blows, 
 And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 
 
THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS. S5 
 
 Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight, 
 Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir ; 
 Tossing on high the symbol of their rite. 
 The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire ; 
 Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair, 
 With ivy circling their abundant hair, 
 Onward, with even pace, in stately rows, 
 With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows, 
 And all the while their tribute-songs they bring, 
 And newer glories of the past disclose, 
 And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 
 
 The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white, 
 And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher, 
 Bathed in an air of infinite delight, 
 Smooth without wound of thorn or fleck of mire, 
 Borne up by song as by a trumpet's blare, 
 Leading the van to conquest, on they fare ; 
 Fearless and bold, whoever comes or goes, 
 
86 THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS. 
 
 These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close, 
 Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring, 
 And forests grim forget their ancient woes, 
 And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 
 
 And youths are there for whom full many a night 
 
 Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire, 
 
 Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight, 
 
 And wandered forth through many a scourging briar, 
 
 And waited shivering in the icy air, 
 
 And wrapped the leopard-skin about them there, 
 
 Knowing, for all the bitter air that froze, 
 
 The time must come, that every poet knows, 
 
 When he shall rise and feel himself a king, 
 
 And follow, follow where the ivy grows, 
 
 And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 
 
 But oh ! within the heart of this great flight, 
 Whose ivory arms hold up the golden lyre ? 
 
THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS. 87 
 
 What form is this of more than mortal height ? 
 What matchless beauty, what inspired ire ! 
 The brindled panthers know the prize they bear, 
 And harmonise their steps with stately care ; 
 Bent to the morning, like a living rose, 
 The immortal splendour of his face he shows, 
 And where he glances, leaf and flower and wing 
 Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, 
 And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes 
 Record the bounty that thy grace bestows, 
 But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling, 
 And with no frigid lips our songs compose, 
 And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 
 
THE PRAISE OE ARTEMIS. 
 
 By Cephissus' 
 
 Silver stream, 
 "White narcissus 
 
 Blossoms gleam, 
 And the chilly 
 Waterlily 
 Opens stilly 
 
 Cups of cream. 
 
 The soft night 
 
 Scarce forgets 
 Scent of white 
 
 Violets, 
 
THE PRAISE OF ARTEMIS. 89 
 
 Ere there blows 
 Rose on rose, 
 And their snows 
 The wind frets. 
 
 Through the shadows 
 
 And perfume, 
 By the meadows 
 
 Deep in bloom, 
 Who comes singing 
 Blithe, and bringing 
 Light upspringing 
 
 Through the doom ? 
 
 At her feet 
 
 Breaks the dawn. 
 Fond and fleet 
 
 As a fawn 
 
9o THE PRAISE OF AR7EMIS. 
 
 Up the skies 
 See ! it flies, 
 And night dies 
 On the lawn. 
 
 By her fingers 
 
 Hangs a bow, 
 While there lingers 
 
 Round her so 
 A god's glory 
 Dim and hoary, 
 Wreathed in story 
 Long ago. 
 
 Round her mild 
 Brows and fair 
 
 Clings a wild 
 Huntress air. 
 
THE PRAISE OF ARTEMIS. 9 i 
 
 At her side, 
 Girdled, hide 
 Arrows tried, 
 And a spear. 
 
 And the leopard 
 Fears her skill, 
 
 But the shepherd 
 On the hill 
 
 Never misses 
 
 Warm love-blisses, 
 
 Whispers, kisses 
 All his fill. 
 
 He alone 
 
 Hears her breast 
 Pant and moan 
 
 In unrest, 
 
92 THE PRAISE OF ARTEMIS. 
 
 None else knows 
 How these snows 
 Flush with rose, 
 Love-opprest. 
 
 She can follow, 
 Fierce, elate, 
 White Apollo 
 
 Grim and great ; 
 Shrilly sang her 
 Shafts' wild clangour, 
 When his anger 
 Flashed in fate. 
 
 When the morn 
 Wept to see, 
 
 Through the corn, 
 Niobe 
 
THE PRAISE OF ARTEMIS. 93 
 
 Cold and slain, 
 And the twain 
 Turned again 
 Haughtily. 
 
 Like a lion 
 
 Shot and shent, 
 Falls Orion, 
 
 Helhvard sent ; 
 Nymph and satyr 
 Part and scatter, 
 Trembling at her 
 
 Pure intent. 
 
 For she brooks not 
 Mortal pride, 
 
 And she looks not 
 Near or wide, 
 
94 
 
 THE PRAISE OF ARTEMIS. 
 
 Heeds no praying, 
 Makes no staying, 
 Hastes the slaying, 
 Once defied. 
 
 Then with humble 
 Looks and dread, 
 
 Let us crumble 
 Holy bread, 
 
 Feed the flying 
 
 Birds undying, 
 
 Wheeling, crying, 
 Round our head. 
 
 With elation 
 
 Half divine, 
 Pour libation, 
 
 Oil and wine ; 
 
THE PRAISE OF ARTEMIS. 
 
 While it blazes, 
 Chaunt her praises, 
 Crowned with daisies, 
 Wreathed with pine. 
 
 And narcissus 
 
 Blossoming, 
 From Cephissus 
 
 Duly bring, 
 At her altar 
 Praise, exalt her, 
 Never falter, 
 
 Ever sing. 
 
9 6 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 When age comes by and lays his frosty hands 
 So lightly on mine eyes, that, scarce aware 
 Of what an endless weight of gloom they bear, 
 
 I pause, unstirred, and wait for his commands ; 
 
 When time has bound these limbs of mine with bands, 
 And hushed mine ears, and silvered all my hair, 
 May sorrow come not, nor a vain despair 
 
 Trouble my soul that meekly girded stands. 
 
 As silent rivers into silent lakes, 
 
 Through hush of reeds that not a murmur breaks, 
 
 Wind, mindful of the poppies whence they came, 
 So may my life, and calmly burn away, 
 As ceases in a lamp at break of day 
 
 The fragrant remnant of memorial flame. 
 
GREECE AND EXGLAXD. 
 
 Would this sunshine be completer, 
 Or these violets smell sweeter, 
 Or the birds sing more in metre, 
 If it all were years ago, 
 When the melted mountain-snow 
 Heard in Enna all the woe 
 Of the poor forlorn Demeter ? 
 
 Would a stronger life pulse o'er us 
 If a panther-chariot bore us, 
 If we saw, enthroned before us, 
 Ride the leopard-footed god, 
 With a fir-cone tip the rod, 
 Whirl the thyrsus round, and nod 
 To a drunken Mamad-chorus ? 
 
 H 
 
98 GREECE AND ENGLAND. 
 
 Bloomed there richer, redder roses 
 Where the Lesbian earth encloses 
 All of Sappho ? where reposes 
 
 Meleager, laid to sleep 
 
 By the olive-girdled deep ; 
 
 Where the Syrian maidens weep, 
 Bringing serpolet in posies ? 
 
 Ah ! it may be ! Greece had leisure 
 For a world of faded pleasure ; 
 We must tread a tamer measure, 
 
 To a milder homelier lyre ; 
 
 We must tend a paler fire, 
 
 Lay less perfume on the pyre, 
 Be content with poorer treasure ! 
 
 Were the brown-limbed lovers bolder ? 
 
 Venus younger, Cupid older ? 
 
 Down the wood-nymph's warm white shoulder 
 
GREECE AND ENGLAND. 99 
 
 Trailed a purpler, madder vine ? 
 Were the poets more divine ? 
 Brew we no such golden wine 
 Here, where summer suns are colder ? 
 
 Yet for us too life has flowers, 
 
 Time a glass of joyous hours, 
 
 Interchange of sun and showers, 
 And a wealth of leafy glades, 
 Meant for loving men and maids, 
 Full of warm green lights and shades, 
 
 Trellis-work of wild-wood bowers. 
 
 So while English suns are keeping 
 Count of sowing-time and reaping, 
 We've no need to waste our weeping, 
 
 Though the glad Greeks lounged at ease 
 
 Underneath their olive-trees, 
 
 And the Sophoclean bees 
 Swarmed on lips of poets sleeping ! 
 
THE FIRST SNOW. 
 
 The first sharp snow is shrilling through the trees, 
 Muffling all other sounds, as though it were 
 The cold hand of a god pressed unaware 
 
 Across the strings of all earth's harmonies, 
 
 Or as a sorrow with its silences 
 
 Drowns a heart's music in one chord of care, 
 Filling with dumbness of unechoing air 
 
 What rang with rapture of a soul at ease. 
 
 Yet fair the widowed world that sits in white, 
 And sweet to ears attuned that whistling sound 
 
 Of falling frost, so pure, so keen, so light ! 
 Sometimes, aweary of gay bird and leaf, 
 This also good the satiate heart hath found, — 
 To hear the sharp still monotone of grief. 
 
101 
 
 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 Cold glassy pool in whose dark fount 
 The sad shy Oreads bathed by night 
 Their marble limbs and white, 
 Why stir the elms that round thee mount, 
 Quivering in strange affright ? 
 
 Ah, woe ! for hither Nicias came, 
 
 And underneath the cool sweet boughs 
 Forgetful of his vows, 
 
 Soul-stricken by love's fatal flame 
 That marked his ashen brows, 
 
102 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 He whispered, ' Rhodion ! Rhodion ! ' twice, 
 And bent above thy shivering wave, 
 That no faint echo gave ; 
 
 One piercing blow could well suffice, 
 And then, no god could save. 
 
 His blood dripped slowly down to thee, 
 And as it touched thy virgin face, 
 And soiled its crystal grace, 
 
 The moving elm-trees moaned to see 
 Their holy fount's disgrace. 
 
 And now no more from dusk to dawn 
 The Oreads bathe their slender feet 
 Through nights of dog-star heat, 
 
 Nor press thy banks of shelving lawn 
 With shapely limbs and fleet ; 
 
THE SUICIDE. 
 
 Nor shall, till she who wrought his woe, 
 And with the shafts of her disdain 
 
 Pursued his fading brain, 
 Come here in grief, and, bending low, 
 
 Purge thee with tears again. 
 
104 
 
 THE BURDEN OF DELIGHT. 
 
 Remember how the winter through, 
 
 While all the ways were choked with mire, 
 Half-maddened with the rain, we two 
 Have nestled closer round the fire ; 
 And talked of all that should be done 
 When April brought us back the sun, 
 What gardens white with butterflies, 
 
 What soft green nooks of budded heather, 
 What moorlands open to the skies 
 We two would scour together ! 
 
THE BURDEN OF DELIGHT. 105 
 
 And now the month comes round again ! 
 
 Cool interchange of genial hours, 
 Soft gleams of sunlight, streams of rain, 
 
 Have starred the meadow-lands with flowers, 
 And in the orchards on the hills 
 The grass is gold with daffodils, 
 And we have wandered hand in hand, 
 
 AVhere sea below and sky above 
 Seem narrowing to a strip of land 
 The pathway that we love. 
 
 Our path looks out on the wide sea 
 And knows not of the land ; we sit 
 
 For hours in silent reverie 
 
 To watch the sea and pulse with it : 
 
 Its deep monotonous refrain 
 
 Brings melancholy, almost pain ; 
 
106 THE BURDEN OF DELIGHT. 
 
 We scarcely wish to speak or move, 
 But just to feel each other there, 
 And sense of presence is like love, 
 And silence more than prayer. 
 
 • Sharp round the steep hill's utmost line 
 It winds, and, just below, the grass 
 
 Sinks with tumultuous incline 
 
 To where the rock-pools shine like glass ; 
 
 The tufts of thrift can drink their fill 
 
 Of sea-wind on this rugged hill, 
 
 And all the herbage, tossed and blown, 
 
 Is stained with salt and crushed with wind, 
 
 Save where, behind some boulder stone, 
 A harbour flowers may find. 
 
 The bright sea sparkles, sunbeam-kissed, 
 And o'er its face such breezes float 
 
THE BURDEN OF DELIGHT. 107 
 
 As lightly turn to amethyst 
 
 The pearl-gray of a ring-dove's throat ; 
 Thus stirred and ruffled, shines anew 
 The radiant plain of changing hue, 
 So gentle that the eye divines 
 
 No reason why the foam should fall 
 So loudly, in such serried lines, 
 Against the dark rock-wall. 
 
 The wind is low now ; even here 
 Where all the breezes congregate, 
 
 The softest warbler need not fear 
 To linger with its downy mate ; 
 
 And here where you have longed to be, 
 
 So many weeks and months, with me, 
 
 Sit silently or softly speak 
 
 Or sing some air of pensive mood, 
 
 Not loud enough to mar or break 
 This delicate solitude. 
 
10S THE BURDEN OF DELIGHT. 
 
 Are we not happy ? Sunlit air, 
 
 Soft colour, floods of dewy light, 
 A flowery perfume everywhere, 
 
 Pour out their wealth for our delight ; 
 Through dreary hours of snow and sleet, 
 The hope of these winged winter's feet, 
 We have them now ; the very breath 
 
 Of nature seems an altar-fire 
 That wakes the bright world's heart from death 
 To satiate our desire. 
 
 Sing to me, therefore, sing or speak ! 
 
 Wake my dull heart to happiness, 1/ 
 Perchance my pulses are too weak 
 
 To stir with all this sweet excess ; 
 Perhaps the sudden spring has come 
 Too soon, and found my spirit dumb ; 
 Howe'er it be, my heart is cold, 
 
 No echo stirs within my brain, 
 
THE BURDEN OF DELIGHT. 109 
 
 To me, too suddenly grown old, 
 This beauty speaks in vain. 
 
 Why are you silent ? Lo ! to-day 
 
 It is not as it once hath been ; 
 I cannot sit the old sweet way, 
 
 Absorbed, contented and serene ; 
 I cannot feel my heart rejoice, 
 I crave the comfort of your voice ; 
 Speak ! speak, remind me of the past, 
 
 Let my spent embers at your fire 
 Revive and kindle, till at last 
 Delight surpass desire. 
 
 Still are you silent, only press 
 
 My hand, and turn your face away ? 
 
 You wince, too, from the fierce caress 
 That April flings on us to-day ? 
 
no THE BURDEN OF DELIGHT. 
 
 O human heart, too weak to bear 
 The whole fulfilment of a prayer ! 
 This sudden summer strikes us dumb, 
 
 The wild hope realised but scares, 
 The substances of dreams become 
 A burden unawares. 
 
 How can we sit here and not thrill 
 With but the pleasure of past time ? 
 
 This pathway winding round the hill 
 Should stir us like enchanted rhyme ! 
 
 Nay ! for the dull and sluggish brain 
 
 Is spurred to action all in vain ! 
 
 And when the spirit cannot rise 
 Through natural feeling into light, 
 
 No perfumed air, no splendid skies 
 Can lend it wings for flight. 
 
THE BURDEN OF DELIGHT. 
 
 Come then and leave the glittering sea 
 To sparkle in the laughing air, 
 
 Another day its face will be 
 No less refulgent, no less fair, 
 
 And we by custom be made strong 
 
 To bear what we desired so long ; 
 
 To-day the slackening nerves demand 
 A milder light, a sadder air, 
 
 Some corner of forgotten land 
 Still winter-like and bare. 
 
 Come, leave our foot-path for to-day, 
 And, turning inland, seek the woods 
 
 Where last year's sombre leaves decay 
 In brown sonorous solitudes ; 
 
 The murmurous voice of those dark trees 
 
 Shall teach us more than sun or seas, 
 
THE BURDEN OF DELIGHT. 
 
 And in that twilight we may find 
 
 Some golden flower of strange perfume, 
 A blossom hidden from the wind, 
 A flame within the tomb. 
 
113 
 
 FEBRUARY IN ROME. 
 
 When Roman fields are red with cyclamen, 
 And in the palace-gardens you may find, 
 Under great leaves and sheltering briony-bind, 
 
 Clusters of cream-white violets, O then 
 
 The ruined city of immortal men 
 
 Must smile, a little to her fate resigned ; 
 
 And through her corridors the slow warm wind 
 
 Gush harmonies beyond a mortal ken. 
 
 Such soft favonian airs upon a flute, 
 Such shadowy censers burning live perfume, 
 Shall lead the mystic city to her tomb ; 
 
 Nor flowerless springs, nor autumns without fruit, 
 
 Nor summer-mornings when the winds are mute, 
 Trouble her soul till Rome be no more Rome. 
 i 
 
H4 
 
 THE GOLDEN ISLES. 
 
 Sad would the salt waves be, 
 
 And cold the singing sea, 
 And dark the gulfs that echo to the seven-stringed lyre, 
 
 If things were what they seem, 
 
 If life had no fair dream, 
 No mirage made to tip the dull sea-line with fire. 
 
 Then Sleep would have no light, 
 
 And Death no voice or sight, 
 Their sister Sorrow, too, would be as blind as they, 
 
 And in this world of doubt 
 
 Our souls would roam about, 
 And find no song to sing and no word good to say. 
 
THE GOLDEN ISLES. 115 
 
 Or else, in cloud and gloom 
 
 The soul would read her doom, 
 And sing a rune obscure above a murky sea, 
 
 Dark phrases that would wrong 
 
 The crystal fount of song, 
 For limpid as a pearl the poet's thought should be. 
 
 Not in the storm and rain, 
 
 Not pale with grief and pain, 
 But red with sunlit pulse and breathing health and hope, 
 
 The bard in garments gay 
 
 Should tread the sacred way 
 That leads him towards his god high up the laurelled slope. 
 
 But on the shores of time, 
 
 Hearkening the breakers' chime 
 Falling by night and day along our human sand, 
 
 The poet sits and sees, 
 
 Borne on the morning breeze, 
 The phantom islands float a furlong from the land. 
 
u6 THE GOLDEN ISLES. 
 
 The reverend forms they bear 
 
 Of islands famed and fair, 
 On whose keen rocks, of old, heroic fleets have struck, 
 
 Whose marble dells have seen 
 
 In garments pale and green 
 The nymphs and gods go by to bring the shepherds luck. 
 
 White are their crags, and blue 
 
 Ravines divide them through, 
 And like a violet shell their cliffs recede from shore ; 
 
 Between their fretted capes 
 
 Fresh isles in lovely shapes 
 Die on the horizon pale, and lapse in liquid light. 
 
 Past that dim straitened shore, 
 
 The Argive mother bore 
 The boy she brought to Zeus, pledge of the golden fee ; 
 
 Here Delos, like a gem, 
 
 Still feels Latona's hem, 
 A lordlier Naxos crowns a purpler arc of sea. 
 
THE GOLDEN ISLES. 117 
 
 There mines of Parian lie 
 
 Hid from the sun's clear eye, 
 And waiting still the lamp, the hammer, and the axe 
 
 And he who, pensive, sees 
 
 These nobler Cyclades 
 Forgets the ills of life, and nothing mortal lacks. 
 
 But many an one, in vain, 
 
 Puts out across the main, 
 And thinks to leap on land and tread that magic shore ; 
 
 He comes, for all his toil, 
 
 No nearer to their soil, 
 The isles are floating on, a furlong still before. 
 
 So he contends, until 
 
 The storm wind, harsh and chill, [flame, 
 
 Beats on his sail, and blots the heaven with cloud and 
 
 And well indeed he fares, 
 
 After a world of cares, 
 Returning, if he reach the harbour whence he came. 
 
n8 THE GOLDEN ISLES. 
 
 The poet sits and smiles, 
 
 He knows the golden isles, 
 He never hopes to win their cliffs, their marble mines, 
 
 Reefs where their green sea raves, 
 
 The coldness of their caves, 
 Their felspars full of light, their rosy corallines. . 
 
 All these he oft has sought, 
 
 Led by his travelling thought, 
 Their glorious distance hides no inward charm from him • 
 
 He would not have their day 
 
 To common light decay, 
 He loves their mystery best, and bids their shapes be dim. 
 
 They solace all his pains, 
 
 They animate his strains, 
 Within their radiant glow he soon forgets the world ; 
 
 They bathe his torrid noons 
 
 In the soft light of moons, 
 They leave his lingering evenings tenderly empearled. 
 
THE GOLDEN ISLES. 119 
 
 As one who walks all day 
 
 Along a dusty way, 
 May turn aside to plunge in some sequestered pool, 
 
 And so may straight forget 
 
 His weariness and fret, 
 So seeks the poet's heart those islands blue and cool. 
 
 Content to know them there, 
 
 Hung in the shining air, 
 He trims no foolish sail to win the hopeless coast, 
 
 His vision is enough 
 
 To feed his soul with love, 
 And he who grasps too much may even himself be lost. 
 
 He knows that, if he waits, 
 
 One day the well-worn gates 
 Of life will ope and send him westward o'er the wave ; 
 
 Then will he reach ere night 
 
 The isles of his delight, 
 But they must float until they anchor in the grave. 
 
120 
 
 LEAVE-TAKING. 
 
 Make haste to go lest I should bid thee stay, 
 Yet leave thy lingering hand in mine, and turn 
 
 Those dark pathetic eyes of thine away, 
 Lest when I see the passion in them burn, 
 
 My heart may faint, and through the broken door 
 
 Love enter to pass out again no more. 
 
 Yet tremble not, sweet veined hand and soft, 
 And press not mine with such a cold farewell, 
 
 Lest I remember, now too late, how oft 
 
 My heart has moved thee with its ebb and swell, 
 
 Lest I should take those fingers frail and white, 
 
 And kiss them warm in mine own will's despite. 
 
LEAVE-TAKING. 12 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! ah ! had we only known 
 How hard it is to rend one life in twain, 
 
 We might have wandered through the world alone, 
 And never felt so sharp a thrill of pain ; 
 
 Go hence in silence, or thy last reply 
 
 Will haunt my weary memory till I die. 
 
SONG. 
 
 There's a sleek thrush sits in the apple-tree 
 When it blooms all over with rosy snow, 
 
 And hark ! how he opens his heart to me, 
 Till its inmost hopes and desires I know ! 
 
 Blow, wind, blow, 
 For the thrush will fly when the bloom must go. 
 
 O a friend I had, and I loved him well, 
 And his heart was open and sang to mine, 
 
 And it pains me more than I choose to tell, 
 That he cares no more if I laugh or pine. 
 
 Friend of mine, 
 Can the music fade out of love like thine ! 
 
WORSHIP. 
 
 You are like an apple-shoot 
 
 In the orchard-closes, 
 And I a flower, whose tender root 
 On your root reposes ; 
 
 The cold white winter through 
 We waited, I and you, 
 Till sunlit winds shot through 
 The thickets of dead roses. 
 
 ' Is this barren bough alive ? ' — 
 Said they ;— but we waited. 
 
 ' Can this shrivelled stem revive ? — 
 Spring is scarce belated ! 
 
124 WORSHIP. 
 
 Your buds break out apace, 
 And all this quiet place 
 Shines with the soft green grace 
 Of warm leaves renovated. 
 
 I, the poorest, was the first ! 
 How doth love embolden ! 
 From my sheaf of leaves outburst 
 Three cups, green and golden ; 
 One day at dawn they came 
 Shot out like sudden flame ; 
 They whisper now your name, 
 And tremble, unbeholden. 
 
 Will they not stand shamed and dumb 
 When you burst in flower ! 
 
 March is going, April come 
 Rich in sun and shower ; 
 
WORSHIP, 125 
 
 I am a daffodil ; 
 Sweet, let your heart be still, 
 I wait for you until 
 You reach your blossoming hour. 
 
126 
 
 WINTER- GREEN. 
 
 To-day the winter woods are wet, 
 
 And chill with airs that miss the sun ; 
 The autumn of the year is done, 
 
 Its leaves all fallen, its flower-stars set, 
 Its frosty hours begun. 
 
 Should last year's gold narcissus yearn 
 For next year's roses, oh ! how vain ! 
 No brief dead flowers arise again, 
 
 But each sweet little life in turn 
 
 Must shoot and bloom and wane. 
 
WINTER-GREEN. 127 
 
 Sweet, had the years that slip so fast 
 
 Brought you too soon, or me too late, 
 How had we gnashed our teeth at fate, 
 
 And wandered down to death at last, 
 Forlorn, disconsolate ! 
 
 Surely before the stars were sure, 
 
 Before the moon was set in heaven, 
 Your unborn soul to mine was given, 
 
 Your clear white spirit, rare and pure, 
 
 For me was formed and shriven. 
 
 Ah ! surely no time ever was 
 
 When we were not ; and our soul's light 
 Made those cold spaces infinite 
 
 That lie between the years like glass, 
 Seen only in God's sight ! 
 
128 WINTER-GREEN. 
 
 Howe'er it be, my one desire, 
 
 If chance has brought us face to face, 
 Or if the scheme of things found place 
 
 To store our twin hearts' light and fire 
 In strange foreseeing grace, — 
 
 Howe'er it be, for us at least, 
 
 The woodland-pathways are not dark, 
 New lights are on the boughs and bark, 
 
 And in the sunless rainshot east, 
 
 We hear a mounting lark ! 
 
129 
 
 THE TOMB OF SOPHOCLES. 
 
 A bounding satyr, golden in the beard, 
 That leaps with goat-feet high into the air, 
 And crushes from the thyme an odour rare, 
 
 Keeps watch around the marble tomb revered 
 
 Of Sophocles, the poet loved and feared, 
 
 Whose mighty voice once called out of her lair 
 The Dorian muse severe, with braided hair, 
 
 Who loved the thyrsus and wild dances weird. 
 
 Here all day long the pious bees can pour 
 Libations of their honey ; round this tomb 
 The Dionysiac ivy loves to roam : 
 
 The satyr laughs ; but He awakes no more, 
 
 Wrapped up in silence at the grave's cold core, 
 Nor sees the sun wheel round in the white dome. 
 
 K 
 
13° 
 
 THE PALINODE. 
 
 As Lucius through his asses eyes 
 
 Stared downward from the shameful stage, 
 And heard the ribald laughter rise, 
 
 And yearned out towards his heritage 
 Of manly thought and manly guise, 
 And, rending in blind brutish rage 
 
 The garland-bands that bound his head, 
 
 Champed, all unthinking, the rich rose, 
 And straightway knew the beast was dead, 
 
THE PALINODE. 131 
 
 And the man living, while the throes 
 Of life returned, and the past fled 
 And left him naked ; so now glows 
 
 New power and passion through my veins. 
 
 I have walked too long in mist and mire ; 
 I know by heart the pastoral plains, 
 
 The call has reached me to go higher, 
 
 A riper air my soul sustains, 
 And I can breathe through frost and fire. 
 
 A beetle was my rose. I lay, 
 
 My window open to the night, 
 And listened to the swing and sway 
 
 Of branches balanced in the light 
 
 And aimless breezes. Wafts of hay 
 Came, faint with odour exquisite ; 
 k 2 
 
THE PALINODE. 
 
 The nightingale had sung so loud, 
 
 Her song had wakened a wild roe, 
 Deep in the fern as in a cloud ; 
 
 I heard him trotting far below, 
 
 And now inaudible. A crowd 
 Of nightingales were fluting low 
 
 In answer to their mate, and all 
 
 Passed deeper into the dim wood ; 
 I scarcely heard their call on call, 
 
 And felt alone with solitude : 
 
 Then came a whirr, a hush, a fall ! 
 Some small intruder, bluff and rude, 
 
 Had sat him on my chamber floor ; 
 
 I sought and found him, with his wings 
 Half open ; never rode before 
 
THE PALIXODE. 
 
 A warrior bent on starry things 
 
 So dainty in the mail he wore, 
 So rich in gorgeous blazonings ; 
 
 The chrysoprase with blow on blow 
 
 Had on some magic anvil lain 
 To fit his sturdy shoulders so, 
 
 The beryl that will bear no stain 
 
 Shone on his breastplate, and below 
 His buckler flashed with golden grain. 
 
 I took this knight of fair romaunt 
 Within the hollow of my hand ; 
 He had forgotten aim and vaunt. 
 
 Dead as a waif on some bare strand, 
 He lay, unheeding scoff and taunt, 
 And could or would not understand 
 
i 3 4 THE PALINODE. 
 
 That he was free as air to fly 
 
 And reach the stars, if such his will ; 
 ' Ah ! foolish man-at-arms,' said I, 
 
 ' So soon hast thou, too, drunk thy fill 
 Of high ambition, fain to lie, 
 A beetle then, a beetle still, 
 
 ' When just five minutes gone thou wast 
 No beetle, but a spirit keen, 
 Borne up on aspirations vast 
 
 ' As men's or angels', scarcely seen 
 
 In splendid soaring ; all is past, 
 
 And thou art impotent and mean ! 
 
 ' Poor insect ! yet not half so frail, 
 Nor so disaster-struck by far, 
 As men who set themselves to scale 
 
THE PALINODE. 135 
 
 1 The heavens, and leap from star to star, 
 
 And, ere they seek to conquer, fail, 
 And learn at once what worms they are ! ' 
 
 Thus I, — and would have soon cast out 
 
 The stricken beetle ; but he stirred, 
 And waved his gleaming horns about, 
 
 And saw the moon, and rose, and whirred 
 
 His gauzy wings in gorgeous flight, 
 Aud upwards faded, like a bird, 
 
 Far out into the night. I stared, 
 
 And, at the wonder of the thing, 
 My spirit suddenly stood bared, 
 
 Of all the petty swathes that cling 
 
 About the coward soul. It fared 
 With me as with that fabled kins; 
 
136 THE PALINODE. 
 
 Who woke to find the robes he wore 
 
 Mere nakedness. The beetle, numb, 
 Thrown helmless on an alien shore, 
 
 Afflicted, beaten, puzzled, dumb, 
 
 Balked in the blind desire to soar, 
 And whelmed with sorrows in a sum, 
 
 Could gather up his shattered skill, 
 
 And by an instinct most divine, 
 Steer for the stars again, and fill 
 
 His soul with music, while I pine 
 
 And mourn in discords weak and shrill 
 The failure of these hopes of mine. 
 
 A healthier courage aid me now 
 
 To cast this body of fears aside ; 
 To stand with stedfast eye and brow 
 
THE PALINODE. 
 
 Under the fleckless heaven, decide 
 
 At once, not heeding when or how, 
 My spirit among the stars to guide ! 
 
 It shall be so ! Even now I feel 
 
 The sordid cares that mar our day, 
 Pale wounds that leechcraft cannot heal 
 
 i37 
 
 Are staunched and vanish ; the vain fray 
 
 Of earthly aims no more can steal 
 My resolute desire away ; 
 
 The brief success of smiling fools, 
 
 The grace and fame of blander knaves, 
 Distress me not. They are the tools 
 
 Of some strange Delphic fate that craves, 
 
 While human life it overrules, 
 The suffrage of poltroons and slaves. 
 
ijS THE PALINODE. 
 
 The future is not left to these, 
 
 But when this giddy age is o'er, 
 And we look back from over-seas 
 
 Towards that forsaken fading shore 
 We call the Past, by slow degrees 
 High lights and peaks not seen before 
 
 Will rise into the liberal air, 
 
 And all that once was true arid wise 
 And mocked-at, and all spirits that were 
 
 Content with unabated eyes 
 
 To seek the best with little care 
 For present fame, will take the guise 
 
 That immortality puts on. 
 
 Be this my goal ! and let me seek 
 The light that on my cradle shone ; 
 
THE PALINODE. 139 
 
 The least of us is not too weak 
 
 To leave the world with something done. 
 Master, I follow ! Master, speak ! 
 
140 
 
 THE ACONITE. 
 
 An evil gift, this flower of aconite, 
 
 Born in some drear tempestuous night of March, 
 
 When the shrill winds blow from the East, and parch 
 The horror-stricken earth in their wild flight ; 
 In some dull wood, against the edge of light, 
 
 Under the tassels of a wintry larch, 
 
 It rose, and gazing on the purple arch 
 Of moonless heaven, grew lurid at the sight. 
 Lo ! the one hateful thing that from her lap 
 
 Lets fall the loose- haired maiden, laughing Spring ; 
 Nay, rather let us deem this baleful thing 
 
 No springtide gift, gushing with generous sap, 
 
 But Winters latest insult, by good hap 
 The last the foul anatomy can fling. 
 
I 4 I 
 
 TO MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 Thou hast the colours of the Spring, 
 The gold of kingcups triumphing, 
 
 The blue of wood-bells wild ; 
 But winter-thoughts thy spirit fill, 
 And thou art wandering from us still, 
 
 Too young to be our child. 
 
 Yet have thy fleeting smiles confessed, 
 Thou dear and much-desired guest, 
 
 That home is near at last ; 
 Long lost in high mysterious lands, 
 Close by our door thy spirit stands, 
 
 Its journey well-nigh past. 
 
142 TO MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 Oh sweet bewildered soul, I watch 
 The fountains of thine eyes, to catch 
 
 New fancies bubbling there, 
 To feel our common light, and lose 
 The flush of strange ethereal hues 
 
 Too dim for us to share ! 
 
 Fade, cold immortal lights, and make 
 This creature human for my sake, 
 
 Since I am nought but clay ; 
 An angel is too fine a thing 
 To sit beside my chair and sing, 
 
 And cheer my passing day. 
 
 I smile, who could not smile, unless 
 The air of rapt unconsciousness 
 
 Passed, with the fading hours ; 
 I joy in every childish sign 
 That proves the stranger less divine 
 
 And much more meekly ours. 
 
TO MY DAUGHTER. 143 
 
 I smile, as one by night who sees, 
 Through mist of newly-budded trees, 
 
 The clear Orion set, 
 And knows that soon the dawn will fly 
 In fire across the riven sky, 
 
 And gild the woodlands wet. 
 
144 
 
 ALCYONE. 
 
 PHCEBUS. 
 
 What voice is this that wails above the deep ? 
 
 ALCYONE. 
 
 A wife's, that mourns her fate and loveless days. 
 
 PHOZBUS. 
 
 What love lies buried in these water-ways ? 
 
 ALCYONE. 
 
 A husband's, hurried to eternal sleep. 
 
ALCYONE. 145 
 
 PHCEBUS. 
 
 Cease, O beloved, cease to wail and weep 1 
 
 ALCYONE. 
 
 Wherefore ? 
 
 PHCEBUS. 
 
 The waters in a fiery blaze 
 Proclaim the godhead of my healing rays. 
 
 ALCYONE. 
 
 No god can sow where fate hath stood to reap. 
 
 PHCEBUS. 
 
 Hold, wringing hands ! cease, piteous tears, to fall ! 
 
 ALCYONE. 
 
 But grief must rain and glut the passionate sea. 
 
 L 
 
146 ALCYONE. 
 
 PHCEBUS. 
 
 Thou shalt forget this ocean and thy wrong, 
 And I will bless the dead, though past recall. 
 
 ALCYONE. 
 
 What canst thou give to me or him in me ? 
 
 PHCEBUS. 
 
 A name in story and a light in song. 
 
147 
 
 THE HOUSELEEK. 
 
 Green houseleek, whose fair lady-love 
 Is my white dove, 
 
 Peer down from our slant tiled roof and see 
 If in my garden any flower or tree 
 Grows but for me ! 
 
 Else will I scatter yellow peas, 
 
 And at my ease 
 
 Will woo thy soft companion to my feet, 
 
 And in the darkness of my safe retreat 
 
 Feel her heart beat ; 
 
148 THE HOUSELEEK. 
 
 And shut her in a golden cage, 
 
 And mock thy rage, 
 
 Till thy red spikes of blossom day by day 
 
 Beneath the winds and autumn suns decay, 
 
 And fade away. 
 
 Round houseleek, squat upon the tiles, 
 
 For miles and miles 
 
 Thou canst gaze far and wide ; look down for me 
 
 And tell me what thy cunning leaf can see, 
 
 Harsh though it be. 
 
 The roses only live for pride ; 
 
 The lilies died 
 
 Because the rough moth troubled their pure bells ; 
 
 Deep down within the columbine's blue cells 
 
 Some sadness dwells. 
 
THE HOUSELEEK. 149 
 
 The jonquils only breathe for God ; 
 
 A footstep trod 
 
 The hopeful-hearted pansy down to death ; 
 
 The honeysuckle overlavisheth 
 
 Her rich and luscious breath. 
 
 Only the violet I trust : 
 
 Surely she must, 
 
 Being so sweet, so modest and so free, 
 
 And knowing how I love her utterly, 
 
 Be true to me ? 
 
 O tell me, houseleek, thou must know, 
 Say, is it so? 
 
 Then may thy dove's pink feet upon the eaves 
 Perch all day long beside thy patient leaves, 
 \\"hile her throat grieves. 
 
ISO 
 
 THE SUPPLIANT 
 
 Beneath the poplars o'er the sacred pool 
 
 The halcyons dart like rays of azure light, — 
 Fair presage ! by the columns white and cool, 
 I'll watch till fall of night. 
 
 Perchance the goddess at the twilight's breath 
 
 Will come with silver feet and braidless hair, 
 And all too startled to decree my death, 
 Will hearken to my prayer. 
 
 So when at moon-rise by the farm I go, 
 
 The lovely girl who near the fig-tree stands , 
 May turn no more on scornful feet and slow, 
 But hold out both her hands. 
 
THE WELL. 
 
 Like this cold and mossy fount 
 Which forgets the sun at noon, 
 
 Sees just stars enough to count, 
 And a vision of the moon, — 
 
 Where the little stems and leaves, 
 Round the edges of the well, 
 
 Quiver, while the water grieves, 
 At the tale it has to tell, — 
 
 Where your bright face, peering through 
 Two soft clouds of falling hair, 
 
 Sees a dim and troubled view 
 Of its own clear beauty there. — 
 
152 THE WELL. 
 
 Such my heart is ; in it lies 
 Your dear image all day long, 
 
 But 'tis stirred with fears and sighs, 
 And its dimness does you wrong. 
 
i.v 
 
 DIZAIN. 
 
 Artist in verse, to whom the world appears 
 Most real, and yet the mirrored form of truth, 
 
 From whom alone the wasteful lapse of years 
 Robs nothing of earth's beauty or her youth, 
 Be grave, but joyous, with no taint of ruth, 
 
 For thou canst make an April shower of tears 
 
 Immortal, and so lull the aching ears 
 
 Of grief, that she shall laugh in time to come, 
 
 When her own melancholy voice she hears 
 Grown sweet on lips that never can be dumb. 
 
154 
 
 VILLAXELLES. 
 
 I 
 
 Wouldst thou not be content to die 
 
 When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging, 
 And golden Autumn passes by ? 
 
 Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky, 
 
 While sunset bells are faintly ringing, 
 Wouldst thou not be content to die ? 
 
 For wintry webs of mist on high 
 
 Out of the muffled earth are springing, 
 And golden Autumn passes by. 
 
VILLA XELLES. 155 
 
 O now when pleasures fade and fly, 
 
 And Hope her southward flight is winging, 
 Wouldst thou not be content to die ? 
 
 Lest Winter come, with wailing cry 
 
 His cruel icy bondage bringing, 
 When golden Autumn hath passed by. 
 
 And thou, with many a tear and sigh, 
 
 While life her wasted hands is wringing, 
 Shalt pray in vain for leave to die 
 When golden Autumn hath passed by. 
 
 II. 
 
 Little mistress mine, good-bye ! 
 
 I have been your sparrow true ; 
 Dig my grave, for I must die. 
 
1 56 VILLANELLES. 
 
 Waste no tear and heave no sigh ; 
 
 Life should still be blithe for you, 
 Little mistress mine, good-bye ! 
 
 In your garden let me lie, 
 
 Underneath the pointed yew 
 Dig my grave, for I must die. 
 
 We have loved the quiet sky 
 
 With its tender arch of blue ; 
 Little mistress mine, good-bye ! 
 
 That I still may feel you nigh, 
 
 In your virgin bosom, too, 
 Dig my grave, for I must die. 
 
 Let our garden-friends that fly 
 Be the mourners, fit and few. 
 Little mistress mine, good-bye ! 
 Dig my grave, for I must die. 
 
157 
 
 SESTINA. 
 
 ' Fra tutti il primo Arnaldo Daniello 
 Gran maestro d' amor.' — Petrarch, 
 
 In fair Provence, the land of lute and rose, 
 Arnaut, great master of the lore of love, 
 First wrought sestines to win his lady's heart, 
 For she was deaf when simpler staves he sang, 
 And for her sake he broke the bonds of rhyme, 
 And in this subtler measure hid his woe. 
 
 ' Harsh be my lines,' cried Arnaut, 'harsh the woe 
 My lady, that enthorn'd and cruel rose, 
 Inflicts on him that made her live in rhyme ! ' 
 
158 SESTINA. 
 
 But through the metre spake the voice of Love, 
 And like a wild-wood nightingale he sang 
 Who thought in crabbed lays to ease his heart. 
 
 It is not told if her untoward heart 
 
 Was melted by her poet's lyric woe, 
 
 Or if in vain so amorously he sang ; 
 
 Perchance through cloud of dark conceits he rose 
 
 To nobler heights of philosophic song, 
 
 And crowned his later years with sterner rhyme. 
 
 This thing alone we know : the triple rhyme 
 Of him who bared his vast and passionate heart 
 To all the crossing flames of hate and love, 
 Wears in the midst of all its storm of woe, — 
 As some loud morn of March may bear a rose, — 
 The impress of a song that Arnaut sang. 
 
 ' Smith of his mother-tongue,' the Frenchman sang 
 Of Lancelot and of Galahad, the rhyme 
 
SESTIXA. 159 
 
 That beat so bloodlike at its core of rose, 
 It stirred the sweet Francesca's gentle heart 
 To take that kiss that brought her so much woe 
 And sealed in fire her martyrdom of love. 
 
 And Dante, full of her immortal love, 
 
 Stayed his drear song, and softly, fondly sang 
 
 As though his voice broke with that weight of woe ; 
 
 And to this day we think of Arnaut's rhyme 
 
 Whenever pity at the labouring heart 
 
 On fair Francesca's memory drops the rose. 
 
 Ah ! sovereign Love, forgive this weaker rhyme ! 
 The men of old who sang were great at heart, 
 Yet have we too known woe, and worn thy rose. 
 
i6o 
 
 RONDEAU, 
 
 Love should faint, and half decline 
 Below the fit meridian sign, 
 
 And shorn of all his golden dress, 
 
 His royal state and loveliness, 
 Be no more worth a heart like thine, 
 Let not thy nobler passion pine, 
 But with a charity divine, 
 
 Let Memory ply her soft address 
 If Love should faint ; 
 And oh ! this laggard heart of mine, 
 Like some halt pilgrim stirred with wine, 
 
RONDEAU. 
 
 161 
 
 Shall ache in pity's dear distress, 
 Until the balms of thy caress 
 To work the finished cure combine, 
 If Love should faint. 
 
 
 M 
 
lG: 
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 Underneath this tablet rest, 
 Grasshopper by autumn slain, 
 Since thine airy summer nest 
 Shivers under storm and rain. 
 
 Freely let it be confessed 
 Death and slumber bring thee gain ; 
 Spared from winter's fret and pain, 
 Underneath this tablet rest. 
 
 Myro found thee on the plain, 
 Bore thee in her lawny breast, 
 
ROXDEL. ,6 3 
 
 Reared this marble tomb amain 
 To receive so small a guest ! 
 Underneath this tablet rest, 
 Grasshopper by autumn slain. 
 
164 
 
 THE BALLAD OF DEAD CLTIES. 
 
 Where are the cities of the plain ? 
 
 And where the shrines of rapt Bethel ? 
 And Calah built of Tubal-Cain ? 
 
 And Shinar whence King Amraphel 
 
 Came out in arms, and fought, and fell, 
 Decoyed into the pits of slime 
 
 By Siddim, and sent sheer to hell ; 
 Where are the cities of old time ? 
 
THE BALLAD OF DEAD CLTIES. 165 
 
 Where now is Karnak, that great fane, 
 
 With granite built, a miracle ? 
 And Luxor smooth without a stain, 
 
 Whose graven scripture still we spell ? 
 
 The jackal and the owl may tell, 
 Dark snakes around their ruins climb, 
 
 They fade like echo in a shell ; 
 Where are the cities of old time ? 
 
 And where is white Shushan, again, 
 Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell, 
 
 And all the Jewish oil and grain 
 Were brought to Mithridath to sell, 
 Where Nehemiah would not dwell. 
 
 Because another town sublime 
 Decoyed him with her oracle ? 
 
 Where are the cities of old time ? 
 
1 66 THE BALLAD OF DEAD CITLES. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell 
 Above their wasted toil and crime 
 
 The waters of oblivion swell : 
 Where are the cities of old time ? 
 
i6 7 
 
 MY OWN GRAVE. 
 
 IMITATED FROM RONSARD. 
 
 When all my life is done 
 Beneath the pleasant sun, 
 When cold are breath and limb, 
 And eyes grown dim, 
 
 Before the whole live air 
 Grows dead to me, prepare 
 A cover for my face, 
 
 A resting-place. 
 
 Yet raise no splendid tomb, 
 Nor o'er my dust find room 
 For blazoned words, but let 
 The world forget. 
 
1 68 MY OWN GRAVE. 
 
 In some sequestered spot, 
 Apart, concealed, remote, 
 Blown round by multitudes 
 Of breezy woods, 
 
 Broad skies above my head, 
 Green turf my body's bed, 
 And, flowing by my side, 
 A river wide. 
 
 There let me too forget 
 All sorrow, pain and fret, 
 Made one with flowers and trees. 
 And blithe like these. 
 
 Green spring, and sunlight shed 
 On summer's golden head, 
 Rich autumn warm with light, 
 And winter white, 
 
MY OWN GRAVE. 169 
 
 Will bring, with various cheer, 
 The sweet revolving year, 
 And I shall rest below 
 
 And scarcely know. 
 
 Yet haply, when there shoots 
 March life in crabbed roots, 
 My heart shall wake to feel 
 It upward steal. 
 
 The new-fledged birds shall bring 
 Me solace when they sing, 
 And stir the boughs that meet 
 Above my feet. 
 
 And when the bees in tune 
 Hum dreamily of June, 
 While over heaven on high 
 Soft clouds float by, 
 
l 7 o MY OWN GRAVE. 
 
 The long sweet grass will fade, 
 And in brown swathes be laid 
 By many a whistling scythe 
 Of mowers blithe ; 
 
 The men will whistle too 
 Till twilight brings the dew, 
 Then leave the fallen grass 
 And homeward pass. 
 
 Their singing, low and sweet, 
 Vibration of their feet, 
 The sense of youth again, 
 Will sooth my brain. 
 
 With face and limbs and hair 
 Dark on the misty air, 
 They'll pass my dreaming eyes, 
 When daylight dies 
 
MY OWN GRAVE. i 7 i 
 
 And e'er September's wind 
 The elm-tree shade has thinned, 
 When rushes droop, and reeds 
 Shake out their seeds, 
 
 When autumn sunsets make 
 A glory through the brake, 
 And down the woodland glades 
 The amber fades, 
 
 Some maiden-heart on fire, 
 Shamed with her new desire, 
 Just waked to passionate will, 
 And trembling still, 
 
 Will come to hide her face 
 With all its girlish grace, 
 Where shining waters lave 
 My greenwood grave. 
 
172 MY OWN GRAVE. 
 
 Her wealth of shining tress 
 And glowing cheek will bless 
 The cool fresh blades that start 
 Out of my heart. 
 
 There silent, hushed, alone, 
 No face to shame her own, 
 She'll give her quivering breast 
 One hour of rest. 
 
 And I, perchance, who know 
 So well the weal and woe 
 Of love, and oft before 
 
 Have taught its lore, 
 
 Through stress of love may gain 
 Some skill to quell her pain, 
 And send through blade and flower 
 Some magic power. 
 
MY OWN GRAVE. 
 
 Howe'er it be, I know 
 That lying there below, 
 My quiet dust will stir 
 With joy in her ; 
 
 That all her youth will be 
 Like noonday rain to me, 
 Her beauty like the sun 
 
 When rain is done. 
 
 Then let them shed no tear 
 "Who hold my memory dear, 
 But pass and leave me there, 
 In woodland air. 
 
 / 
 Hemmed round by birds and bees, 
 
 To haunt the murmuring trees, 
 
 When all this life is done 
 
 Beneath the sun. 
 
 173 
 
174 
 
 A YEAR. 
 
 When the hot wasp hung in the grape last year, 
 And tendrils withered and leaves grew sere, 
 There was little to hope and nothing to fear, 
 And the smouldering autumn sank apace, 
 And my heart was hollow and cold and drear. 
 
 When the last grey moth that November brings 
 Had folded its sallow and sombre wings, 
 Like the tuneless voice of a child that sings, 
 
 A music arose in that desolate place, 
 A broken music of hopeless things. 
 
A YEAR. 175 
 
 But time went by, with the month of snows, 
 And the pulse and tide of that music rose ; 
 As a pain that fades is a pleasure that grows, 
 
 So hope sprang up with a heart of grace, 
 And love as a crocus-bud that blows. 
 
 And now I know when next autumn has dried 
 The sweet hot juice to the grape-skin's side, 
 And the new wasps dart where the old ones died, 
 
 My heart will have rest in one luminous face, 
 And its longing and yearning be satisfied. 
 
176 
 
 BE ACHY HEAD. 
 
 A crowd of butterflies that float 
 
 And flap and wheel in glancing light ; 
 And far away, but clear in sight 
 
 The passage of a white-winged boat ; 
 
 Great daisy-suns that learn by rote 
 The measure of their master's flight, 
 And fold their disks away at night, 
 
 To hoard their borrowed gold, and gloat. 
 
BE ACHY HEAD. 177 
 
 White hands that smell of torn wild thyme, 
 
 Dear hands that lightly lingering press, 
 What sea-cliff sounds made up your chime, 
 
 What flashing lights your soft caress, 
 
 When trembling rapture faltered ' Yes ! ' 
 And all around us rang with rhyme ? 
 
i 7 8 
 
 A WINTER JINGLE. 
 
 The soft wind blows 
 Across the snows, 
 And turns the palest face to rose ; 
 The wind it goes 
 Where no one knows, 
 Like water round the world it flows ; 
 The sunlit air is warm and light 
 Though all the earth be wrapped in white. 
 
 But owlets shrill 
 Shriek round the hill 
 When twilight fades, and all is still ; 
 
A WINTER JINGLE. i 79 
 
 The keen gusts fill 
 The frozen rill 
 With treacherous snowdrifts deep and chill ; 
 The wanderer findeth small delight 
 In crossing there at dead of night. 
 
i8o 
 
 AT THE PLAY. 
 
 Dora seated at the play 
 
 Weeps to see the hero perish, — 
 Hero of a Dresden day, 
 
 Fit for china nymphs to cherish ; 
 O that Dora's heart would be 
 Half so soft and warm for me ! 
 
 When the flaring lights are out 
 His heroic deeds are over, 
 
 Gone his splendid strut and shout, 
 Gone his raptures of a lover, 
 
 While my humdrum heart you'd find 
 
 True, though out of sight and mind. 
 
iSi 
 
 THE LOSS OF THE ' EUR YD ICE.' 
 
 Tired with the toils that know no end, 
 
 On wintry seas long doomed to roam, 
 They smiled to think that March could lend 
 Such radiant winds to waft them home ; 
 Long perils overpast, 
 They stood for port at last, 
 Close by the fair familiar water-way, 
 And on their sunlit lee 
 All hearts were glad to see 
 The crags of Culver through the shining day ; 
 
1 82 THE LOSS OF THE ' EUR 'YD 'ICE.' 
 
 While every white-winged bird, 
 Whose joyous cry they heard, 
 Seemed wild to shout the welcome that it bore 
 Of love from friends on shore. 
 
 Ah ! brief their joy, as days are brief 
 
 In March, that loves not joy or sun ; 
 O bitter to the heart of grief 
 
 The port that never shall be won ; 
 Fair ship, with all sail set, 
 Didst thou perchance forget 
 The changing times and treacherous winds of Spring ? 
 And could those headlands grey 
 Rehearse no tale to-day, 
 Of wrecks they have seen, and many a grievous thing ? 
 Thy towering cliff, Dunnose, 
 Full many a secret knows, — 
 Cry out in warning voice ! too much they dare ; 
 Death gathers in the air. 
 
THE LOSS OF THE ' EUR YD ICE.' 183 
 
 A wind blew sharp out of the north, 
 
 And o'er the island-ridges rose 
 A sound of tempest going forth, 
 And murmur of approaching snows. 
 Then through the sunlit air 
 Streamed dark the lifted hair 
 Of storm-cloud, gathering for the light's eclipse, 
 And fiercely rose and fell 
 The shriek of waves, the knell 
 Of seamen, and the doom of wandering ships ; 
 As with an eagle's cry 
 The mighty storm rushed by, 
 Trailing its robe of snow across the wave, 
 And gulfed them like a grave. 
 
 It passed ; it fell ; and all was still ; 
 
 But, homebound wanderers, where were they ? 
 The wind went down behind the hill, 
 
 The sunset gilded half the bay. 
 
1 84 THE LOSS OF THE ' EUR YD ICE: 
 
 Ah ! loud bewildered sea, 
 
 Vain, vain our trust in thee 
 To bring our kinsfolk home, through storm and tide ! 
 
 So sharp and swift the blow, 
 
 Thyself dost hardly know 
 Where now they rest whom thou didst bear and guide ; 
 
 Our human hearts may break, 
 
 Cold Ocean, for thy sake, — 
 Thou not the less canst paint in colours fair 
 
 The eve of our despair. 
 
 Not hard for heroes is the death 
 
 That greets them from the cannon's lips, 
 When heaven is red with flaming breath, 
 And shakes with roar of sundering ships : 
 When through the thunder-cloud 
 Sounds to them, clear and loud, 
 The voice of England calling them by name ; 
 
THE LOSS OF THE * EUR Y DICE: 1S5 
 
 And as their eyes grow dim 
 
 They hear their nation's hymn, 
 And know the prelude of immortal fame ; 
 
 But sad indeed is this 
 
 The meed of war to miss, 
 And die for England, but in dying know 
 
 They leave no name but woe. 
 
 They cannot rest through coming years, 
 
 In any ground that England owns, 
 And billows salter than our tears 
 
 Wash over their unhonoured bones ; 
 Yet in our hearts they rest 
 Not less revered and blest 
 Than those, their brothers, who in fighting fell : 
 Nor shall our children hear 
 Their names pronounced less dear. 
 When England's roll of gallant dead we tell ; 
 
1 86 THE LOSS OF THE ' EURYDICE. 
 
 For ever shall our ships, 
 There, at the Solent's lips, 
 Pass out to glory over their still bed, 
 And praise the silent dead. 
 
i8 7 
 
 THE BATH. 
 
 With rosy palms against her bosom pressed 
 
 To stay the shudder that she dreads of old, 
 
 Lysidice glides down, till silver-cold 
 The water girdles half her glowing breast : 
 A yellow butterfly on flowery quest 
 
 Rifles the roses that her tresses hold : 
 
 A breeze comes wandering through the fold on fold 
 Of draperies curtaining her shrine of rest. 
 Soft beauty, like her kindred petals strewed 
 
 Along the crystal coolness, there she lies. 
 
 What vision gratifies those gentle eyes ? 
 She dreams she stands where yesterday she stood 
 Where, while the whole arena shrieks for blood, 
 
 Hot in the sand a srladiator dies. 
 
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 1805— 1875. 
 
 A being cleaves the moonlit air, 
 
 With eyes of dew and plumes of fire, 
 New-born, immortal, strong and fair ; 
 
 Glance ere he goes ! 
 His feet are shrouded like the dead, 
 
 But in his face a wild desire 
 Breaks like the dawn that flushes red, 
 And like a rose. 
 
 The stars shine out above his path, 
 
 And music wakes through all the skies ; 
 What mortal such a triumph hath, 
 By death set free ? 
 
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 
 What earthly hands and heart are pure 
 
 As this man's, whose unshrinking eyes 
 Gaze onward through the deep obscure, 
 Nor quail to see ? 
 
 Ah ! this was he who drank the fount 
 Of wisdom set in speechless things, 
 Who, patient, watched the day-star mount, 
 
 While others slept. 
 Ah ! this was he whose loving soul 
 
 Found heart-beats under trembling wings, 
 And heard divinest music roll 
 
 Where wild springs leapt. 
 
 For poor dumb lips had songs for him 
 
 And children's dreamings ran in tune, 
 And strange old heroes, weird and dim, 
 Walked by his side. 
 
i 9 o HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 
 The very shadows loved him well 
 
 And danced and flickered in the moon, 
 And left him wondrous tales to tell 
 Men far and wide. 
 
 And now no more he smiling walks 
 
 Through greenwood alleys full of sun, 
 And, as he wanders, turns and talks, 
 
 Though none be there ; 
 The children watch in vain the place 
 
 Where they were wont, when day was done, 
 To see their poet's sweet worn face, 
 And faded hair. 
 
 Yet dream not such a spirit dies, 
 
 Though all its earthly shrine decay ! 
 Transfigured under clearer skies, 
 He sings anew ; 
 
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 191 
 
 The frail soul-covering, racked with pain, 
 
 And scored with vigil, fades away, 
 The soul set free and young again 
 Glides upward through. 
 
 Weep not ; but watch the moonlit air ! 
 
 Perchance a glory like a star 
 May leave what hangs about him there, 
 
 And flash on us ! . . . 
 Behold ! the void is full of light, 
 
 The beams pierce heaven from bar to bar, 
 And all the hollows of the night 
 Grow luminous ! 
 
192 
 
 EROS. 
 
 Within a forest as I strayed, 
 Far down a sombre autumn glade, 
 I found the god of love ; 
 
 His bow and arrows cast aside, 
 His lovely arms extended wide, 
 A depth of leaves above, 
 Beneath o'erarching boughs he made 
 A place for sleep in russet shade. 
 
 His lips, more red than any rose, 
 
 Were like a flower that overflows 
 
 With honey pure and sweet ; 
 
EROS. , 93 
 
 And, clustering round that holy mouth, 
 The golden bees in eager drouth 
 Plied busy wings and feet ; 
 They knew, as every lover knows, 
 There's no such honey-bloom that blows. 
 
194 
 
 ON DARTMOOR. 
 
 I. 
 
 Warm tissue of refulgent vapour fills 
 
 The valley southward to the hurrying stream, 
 Whose withered and sun-wasted waters gleam 
 
 Meandering downwards through the terraced hills ; 
 
 Here, even here, the hand of man fulfils 
 Its daily toil, for though alone I seem 
 I hear the clangour of a far-off team, 
 
 And men that shout above the shouting rills ; 
 
 Nor jars this noise of labour on mine ear, 
 
 Nor seem, because of these, the spirits less near 
 That animate the mountains and the skies, 
 
 The selfsame heart of nature shineth clear 
 
 Through filmy garments of a golden sphere 
 And earnest looks of humble human eyes. 
 
O.V DARTMOOR. 195 
 
 II. 
 
 A soft grey line of haze subdues the west 
 
 That was so rosy half-an-hour ago ; 
 
 The moaning night-breeze just begins to blow, 
 And now the team that ploughed the mountain's breast 
 Cease their long toil, and dream of home and rest ; 
 
 Now, giant-like, the tall young ploughmen go 
 
 Between me and the sunset, footing slow ; 
 My spirit, as an uninvited guest, 
 Goes with them, wondering what desire, what aim, 
 May stir their hearts and mine with common flame, 
 
 Or, thoughtless, do their hands suffice their soul ? 
 I know not, care not, for I deem no shame 
 To hold men, flowers, and trees and stars the same, 
 
 Myself, as these, one atom in the whole. 
 
196 
 
 MAY MORNING. 
 
 Break, long wave, below my feet ! 
 
 Wind and meet, 
 Sea-streams that the moon hath shaken ! 
 From the shingle white and bare, 
 
 All the air 
 With sonorous cadence waken ! 
 
 From the distance dim and bright. 
 
 Gulphed in light, 
 To the long spent wave that dashes, 
 All the sea shines through and through 
 
 Fiery blue : 
 When the wind is up, it flashes. 
 
MA Y MORNING. 197 
 
 And the milder heaven above, 
 
 Full of love, 
 Smiles upon the rolling ocean, 
 Like a woman's heart content 
 
 To be spent 
 And absorbed in sweet devotion. 
 
 Surely Venus through the sea, 
 
 Clear and free, 
 Rose on such a morn as this is, 
 Called her doves about her there, 
 
 Heard the air 
 Murmur through their wings like kisses. 
 
 Out of cold green depths of foam, 
 
 Sea-nymphs' home, 
 To the live air, red with roses, 
 Came she, clothed about with light, 
 
 Warm and white, 
 Like a moon the mist encloses. 
 
MA Y MORNING. 
 
 Like a summer moon whose limbs, 
 
 As she swims 
 Ever up in the pale sether, 
 Cast their lawny veils aside 
 
 Till they hide 
 Nought from the mad earth beneath her. 
 
 Though no more with reverent eyes, 
 
 Sadly wise, 
 Sea and air to us are holy, 
 Born too late for gods to bless, 
 
 "We profess 
 To be disenchanted wholly, 
 
 Though the nymphs are dead, and we 
 
 Cannot see, 
 Plunging in the gulfs of azure, 
 Long processions, gods in line, 
 
 Half divine, 
 Blowing horns of mellow leisure, 
 
MA Y MORNING. 199 
 
 Yet the old sweet creeds and we 
 
 Cannot be 
 Always so far rent asunder, 
 Since we feel on such a morn 
 
 Life reborn 
 In the antique world of wonder. 
 
SERENADE. 
 
 The lemon-petals gently fall 
 
 Within the windless Indian night, 
 The wild liana'd waterfall 
 
 Hangs, lingering like a ghostly light ; 
 Drop down to me, and linger long, my heart's entire 
 delight ! 
 
 Among the trees, the fiery flies 
 
 Move slowly in their robes of flame ; 
 Above them, through the liquid skies, 
 The stars in squadrons do the same ; 
 Move through the garden down to me, and softly speak 
 my name ! 
 
SERENADE. 201 
 
 By midnight's moving heart that shakes 
 The coloured air and kindling gloom, 
 By all the forms that beauty takes 
 In fruit, in blossom, in perfume, 
 Come down and still the aching doubts that haunt me 
 and consume ! 
 
 Else if the chilly morning break, 
 
 And thou hast heard my voice in vain, 
 Unmoved as is a forest-lake 
 
 That through the branches hears the rain, 
 Beware lest Love himself pass by to bless thee, and — • 
 refrain ! 
 
 */. 
 
202 
 
 THE NEW ENDYMION. 
 
 Behind the ghostly poplar-trees 
 The moon rose high when Celia died ; 
 
 To win the flickering midnight breeze 
 I'd thrown the curtains both aside, 
 
 And this was how I came to see 
 
 In my most tearless agony 
 
 The red moon in the poplar-tree. 
 
 The scent of lilies, sickly sweet, 
 
 Just floated through the shining air, 
 
 And the hot perfume of the wheat 
 Hung like a vapour everywhere ; 
 
THE NEW ENDYMION. 203 
 
 The anguish of the summer night, 
 Close, breathless, sultry, still and bright, 
 Seemed without hope and infinite. 
 
 But most the round orb of the moon, 
 That one by one the branches kissed, 
 
 Drawn out of her flushed waking swoon, 
 And changed to gold above the mist, 
 
 Seemed like a rancorous enemy, 
 
 Who climbed by stairs into the sky 
 
 Better to see my darling die. 
 
 And I remembered, hushed at heart, 
 Without a tear, though she was dead, — 
 
 As if my future had no part 
 
 In that cold past upon the bed, — 
 
 I thought how much the moon had seen 
 
 Of happy days that lay between 
 
 The sweet may-be and sad has-been. 
 
2o 4 THE NEW ENDYMION. 
 
 Quivering to feel how, every time 
 
 I forged another link of love, 
 The mystic moon had seemed to climb. 
 And watch my lips, and hang above ; 
 I shuddered, and my thoughts I cast, 
 While all my veins were beating fast, 
 Across my memories of the past. 
 
 I thought of that clear tropic night, 
 
 When, like a bird, through Indian seas, 
 Our ship unfolded wings of light, 
 
 And lost the land by soft degrees : 
 She paced the deck ; I heard the stir 
 Of robes, her beauty's minister, 
 And at the last I spoke to her. 
 
 But while our budding fortunes crossed, 
 Amid her courteous flights of speech, 
 
 My careless vision slowly lost 
 
 The range of palm-trees on the beach, 
 
THE NEW ENDYMION. 205 
 
 Whereat another light began 
 Behind the isles of Andaman, 
 And up the golden moonlight ran. 
 
 I turned and saw her gentle face, 
 Those violet moon-shot eyes I saw, 
 
 And in that very hour and place 
 Bent like a vassal to her law ; 
 
 But yet I dared not speak, and soon 
 
 She rose and suddenly had gone 
 
 And left me to the florid moon. 
 
 I thought me of a winter street, 
 And how the first time, on my arm, 
 
 I felt her gentle pulses beat 
 As in a virgin vague alarm ; 
 
 We let the rest pass on before, 
 
 And talking lingered, more and more 
 
 Hid in the city's kindly roar. 
 
206 THE NEW ENDYMION. 
 
 The great crowd caught us in its net, 
 And pressed us closer to each other ; 
 
 We spoke of all since last we met, 
 
 And laughed like sister and like brother ; 
 
 I all the while, with fixed intent, 
 
 Towards some more serious silence bent 
 
 To say a certain thing I meant. 
 
 In vain, — till out of the blue night, 
 Behind the vast cathedral spire, 
 There swam into our sudden sight 
 A globe of honey-coloured fire, 
 And in the wonder of the view- 
 She hushed her talking, and I knew 
 How kind her heart was and how true. 
 
 I thought, too, of the magic hour 
 When in one sacred chamber bound, 
 
 She loosed her wreath of orange-flower, 
 
 And dropped her wealth of hair uncrowned, 
 
THE NEW EXDYMION. 207 
 
 And I, with tenderest fingers laced 
 
 About the slimness of her waist, 
 
 Her cool and cream-white throat embraced. 
 
 And through this window-pane we glanced 
 And saw the silvery soft may-moon, — 
 
 Like some young maenad that hath danced 
 Till her bright head is in a swoon, — 
 
 Lean up against the poplar-tree, 
 
 And in the wild wind we could see 
 
 The leaves fold round her amorously. 
 
 They folded round as sisters might 
 
 Around a maiden sick to death, 
 Whom some perfidious churl and light 
 
 Had cheated with delusive breath : 
 The moon's white face that golden hour 
 Had something of the tints that lour 
 About the aconite in flower. 
 
2oS THE NEW ENDYMION. 
 
 Yet that last night when Celia died 
 
 The moon's face had a stranger air, 
 A mien of victory, like a bride, 
 
 Enchanted, resolute and fair ; 
 Through all my sorrow, all my pain, 
 I gazed upon the orb again, 
 Till my pent anguish gushed in rain ; 
 
 And then upon her face I fell, 
 
 My sweet, lost Celia's, and my arms 
 Clasped round once more the miracle 
 
 Of her divine and tender charms ; 
 The room grew dark, I knew not why,- 
 I gazed and saw that, suddenly, 
 The moon was ashy in the sky. 
 
 Then I arose and left the dead, 
 And wandered up into the wood, 
 
 Till briar and honeysuckle shed 
 A subtle odour where I stood ; 
 
THE NEW ENDYMION, 209 
 
 And there, between the boughs that lie 
 Thin-leaved against the stars on high, 
 The moon swam down the liquid sky. 
 
 And since that night of pain and love 
 
 I have not felt as others feel, 
 An alien in their courts I move, 
 
 And from their noisy world I steal ; 
 The common ways of life I shun, 
 And quit my comrades every one, 
 And live sequestered from the sun. 
 
 But when the crescent moon begins 
 
 To fill her slender bow with fire, 
 A dream upon my fancy wins, 
 
 I languish with a fond desire ; 
 I stride along the mountain-tops, 
 But when behind their range she drops, 
 My heart within me leaps and stops, 
 p 
 
THE NEW ENDYMION. 
 
 But every month one night I lie 
 
 Upon the wild back of the hills, 
 And watch the hollow of the sky 
 
 Until the crystal dew distils ; 
 And when the perfect moon appears 
 A golden paragon of spheres, 
 I rise a god among my peers. 
 
 Twelve times within the weary year 
 That marvellous hour of joy returns, 
 
 And till its rapture reappear 
 
 My pulse is like a flame that burns ; 
 
 I have no wonder, now, nor care 
 
 For any woman's hands or hair, 
 
 For any face, however fair. 
 
 Ah ! what am I that she should bend 
 Her glorious godship down to me ? 
 
 My mortal weakness cannot lend 
 Fresh light to her vast deity ! 
 
THE NEW ENDYMION. 211 
 
 I know not ! only this I know- 
 She loves me, she has willed it so, 
 And blindly in her light I go. 
 
 Sweet, make me as a mountain pool 
 With thy soft radiance mirrored o'er, 
 
 Or like the moon-fern, grey and cool, 
 That hides thy virtue in its core ; 
 
 I must grow old and pass away ; 
 
 Thou art immortal ; love, I pray, 
 
 Bend o'er me on my fatal day ! 
 
212 
 
 THE WAKING OF EUR YD ICE. 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 Goddess, with the torn pomegranate in that white immor- 
 tal hand, 
 
 Quivering, with a chord's vibrations, at thy fatal throne 
 I stand ! 
 
 I have braved the raucous horror, I have cleft the 
 streams of woe, 
 
 And my living locks are whitened with their grey and 
 sluggish flow ; 
 
 Proud I might be of endurance, high of heart to find my 
 feet 
 
 Strong to bear me, queen and goddess, to thine awful 
 judgment-seat, 
 
THE WAKING OF EURYDICE. 213 
 
 But the soul in me is quiet and the spirit in me 
 dies 
 
 Underneath the cold still flaming of those dark impas- 
 sive eyes. 
 
 Let me speak, then, lest I perish, lest the lyre that 
 brought me hither 
 
 Snap its strings, and lose its cunning, and be like a leaf 
 and wither, 
 
 For the lyre alone sustains me, and without this breathing 
 shell 
 
 I had died upon the upland and the moaning wastes of 
 hell. 
 
 PERSEPHONE. 
 
 Mortal, speak, and spend no accents on the prelude of 
 
 thy prayer, 
 Sovereign knowledge crowns my queenship to the utmost 
 
 bounds of air. 
 
214 THE WAKING OF EURYDICE. 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 None have wit to pierce the darkness if thou veil thine 
 
 awful eyes, 
 None can hide his heart, I know it, if their clear efful- 
 gence rise ; 
 In the fringes of thine eyelids light is born to beam on 
 
 man, 
 And without it he may stumble through the night-time as 
 
 he can, 
 Bare my senses crowd before thee, on my burning spirit 
 
 read, 
 Sculptured, like a rune on marble, all the woes that 
 
 make it bleed ; 
 Few the words, but long their burden, brief the tale, but 
 
 sad to see, 
 Graven with a world of anguish, and the name 
 
 Eurydice. 
 
THE WAKING OF EUR YD ICE. 215 
 
 PERSEPHONE. 
 
 Sweetest ghost, around whose shadow just so much of 
 beauty clings 
 
 As a faded jonquil gathers in its sad grey petal wings, 
 
 Fairest of the weightless number that with mute beseech- 
 ing hand 
 
 Drop the obolus and vanish when the wherry comes to 
 land ; 
 
 Sighing like a wind they vanish, and before my feet they 
 fail 
 
 Ruddy mortal, say, what would'st thou with a soul so 
 thin and pale ! 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 Goddess wiser than the wisest of the gods of upper air, 
 Torture not my soul within me, thou canst read its sorrow 
 there. 
 
216 THE WAKING OF EURYDICE. 
 
 Through my veins the blood is beating, life and youth 
 
 are slaves to me, 
 But the triple world contains not what can solace me but 
 
 she. 
 She is but a wandering spirit in a molten land of 
 
 dreams, 
 Like the phantom of a blossom to thine own clear sense 
 
 she seems, 
 Wasted is she, like a wine-draught that an old blind 
 
 priest would pour, 
 When he stumbles, and it passes, and no god may taste 
 
 it more. 
 Hollow sounds this strand of echoes, and the winds of 
 
 Acheron 
 As about a pineless mountain round its crowded banks 
 
 are blown, 
 For the souls that cluster thickly are too faint and slight 
 
 to shiver, 
 
THE WAKING OF EUR YD ICE. 217 
 
 And the wind goes whistling through them by the cold 
 
 and sullen river. 
 Little glory, thrice-crowned goddess, such a handmaid 
 
 brings to thee ; 
 Yield her, O be great, and master her o'ermastering 
 
 destiny ! 
 
 PERSEPHONE. 
 
 Poignant is the voice that utters, seldom in these courts 
 combine 
 
 Words that bear so live a passion with a note so mas- 
 culine ; 
 
 I could smile to hear thee pleading, for my heart well 
 nigh forgets 
 
 What a weight there is in glory and how queenship wears 
 and frets. 
 
 Such a voice, full-toned and virile, I have scarcely heard 
 again 
 
2i8 THE WAKING OF EUR YD ICE. 
 
 Since I stood a maid with maidens on the lily-woven 
 
 plain, 
 And behind me down the valley heard the breath of 
 
 steeds, and found 
 One who spake in amorous accents with broad arms 
 
 about me wound. 
 Thou hast won thy suit, musician, and I grant thee leave 
 
 to try 
 If to live on earth be sweeter to a spirit than to 
 
 die. 
 Tune thy chords and wield the plectrum ; on my throne 
 
 I sit apart ; 
 Draw her ghost to stand before us by the witchcraft of 
 
 thine art ; 
 She herself, not I, shall teach thee what may be her own 
 
 desire, 
 Win her if thou canst with pleading on thy tense impas- 
 sioned lyre. 
 
THE WAKING OF EURYDICE. 219 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 Ah ! I see the cloud dividing ; through the liquid gloom 
 
 appears, 
 Like the crescent moon seen faintly through a hopeless 
 
 mist of tears, 
 One that glides among the shadows, and has left the 
 
 serried line : 
 Spirit, lift thine eyes and fix them on these aching eyes 
 
 of mine ! 
 Lo ! I stir remembrance in thee by the endless throb and 
 
 motion 
 Of the dolphin-haunted channels of thy blue Ionian 
 
 ocean, 
 By the rosy peaks of Chios, by thy father's snow-white sail 
 Hastening home past granite headlands and before a 
 
 southern gale, 
 By the shining sands that glittered with their dust of 
 
 chrysoprase, 
 
220 THE WAKING OF EUR YD ICE. 
 
 When we first gazed each at other in that silent, sunlit place, 
 By the blush that mounted o'er thee, by the kindling of 
 
 those eyes, 
 Lit by no such flames as these are, but the liquidest of 
 
 skies ! 
 Child, remember life at waking and forget the dream of 
 
 this ! 
 Cool the wind, but warm the sea was, oh ! how warm our 
 
 tender kiss ; 
 Grey and wan those lips of thine now, but my living lips 
 
 are red, 
 And to thrill thy mouth with colour but a whisper needs 
 
 be said. 
 
 EURYDICE. 
 
 Pray me not to speak that whisper, thou whose words 
 
 sound harsh and loud ! 
 Dim and vague all worldly memories on my weary fancy 
 
 crowd ; 
 
THE WAKING OF EURYD1CE. 221 
 
 Yes ! 'tis true ; and I remember ; oh ! be that enough 
 
 for thee ! 
 Boundless space and time unmeasured lie between thy 
 
 voice and me. 
 I am troubled at its ardour ; O believe me, it were 
 
 best 
 To return and stir no longer in the silence of my 
 
 rest. 
 Once I was thy bride, it may be ; I am now the bride of 
 
 Death, 
 Vexed no more with throbbing pulses, led by no mad 
 
 mortal breath ; 
 Vain those hands that stretch to seize me, vain those 
 
 pleading lips and eyes, 
 I am but the shade of shadows and a wandering wind of 
 
 sighs. 
 In the urn of brass that moulders in our garden year by 
 
 year, 
 There is more of me to echo to thine ecstasy than here; 
 
222 THE WAKING OF EUR YD ICE. 
 
 And the dying grasp that gathered close around thy 
 answering hand 
 
 Said farewell, farewell for ever, if thy heart could under- 
 stand. 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 Ah ! the shape, the faultless beauty, ah ! the gracious 
 
 lines I see, 
 Rounded arm and waving bosom, 'tis indeed Eurydice ! 
 White, indeed, with more of lustre than befits a living 
 
 form, 
 But the lights of hell are lurid in this hollow vault of 
 
 storm. 
 Ah ! the face is hers, I know it, but the voice is hard to 
 
 tell, 
 Other were the words it uttered when it bade me last 
 
 farewell. 
 When they poured the last libation, and with myrtles full 
 
 of dew 
 
THE WAKING OF EURYDICE. 223 
 
 Sprinkled lightly those cold fingers, and then hid them 
 
 from my view, 
 When the mourners left the doorway and went slowly 
 
 down the hill, 
 I was master of my anguish, for I heard thy whisper still ; 
 But the voice that comes to meet me through this hollow 
 
 land and drear, 
 Is as empty and as chilly as the wind that wanders here. 
 Thou hast drunk the icy waters of the dull Lethsean spring, 
 And thy memories fade and falter, thou art slowly 
 
 withering ; 
 Dolorous are the streams of Lethe, poor the gifts they 
 
 have to give, — 
 Gaze on me, and strain thy utmost, and remember life 
 
 and live ! 
 
 EURYDICE. 
 
 Did this hand so pale and fragile lie within the grasp of 
 thine ? 
 
224 THE WAKING OF EURYDICE. 
 
 Was thy breath upon my spirit like a burning draught of 
 
 wine ? 
 Did I pledge my soul to love thee, yea ! within the halls 
 
 of hell ? 
 Ah ! a woman's vow is nothing, like an autumn flower it 
 
 fell. 
 Once those eyes could move me strangely, and those 
 
 hands across the lyre 
 Led my beating heart and plunged it in a well of living fire ; 
 Now thy spirit scarcely moves me through the crystal of 
 
 thy tears, 
 And thy lyre-strings crack with passion, but the soul is 
 
 dead that hears. 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 Nay, not dead, since memory wakens ! Golden shell, I 
 
 call to thee ! 
 Cry as when the pine-trees heard thee on the snows of 
 
 Rhodope, 
 
THE WAKING OF EURYDICE. 225 
 
 When thy music lashed to frenzy in their hollow marble 
 
 lairs 
 Lions of the Thracian upland, and the rugged heart ot 
 
 bears ; 
 Harder now the task before thee, toil more arduous, 
 
 more sublime, 
 To awake a soul that slumbers by the mastery of rhyme. 
 Now beneath my fingers quicken, leap to life, wild strings, 
 
 and be 
 Not a tool to work my fancy, but a throbbing part ot 
 
 me ; 
 Softly move with rising measure, like the tide upon the 
 
 shore, 
 Lapping on the sands and darkening their white surface 
 
 more and more, 
 Rising, till, almost unheeded, with its moaning weight of 
 
 waves, 
 Crest on crest, the sea o'erpowers us, as our last retreat it 
 
 laves ! 
 
 Q 
 
226 THE WAKING OF EUR YD ICE. 
 
 Mildly mount in gathering music as the snow-white 
 
 flakes of cloud 
 Branch across the summer heaven till its blue expanse 
 
 they shroud, 
 Scarcely noted in their lustre, blanched and pure without 
 
 a stain, 
 Till they blacken in a moment and o'erwhelm us with the 
 
 rain ! 
 Hover poised, in air, vibrating, as the eagle hangs 
 
 aloft, 
 With his brazen wings half viewless in the coloured sky 
 
 and soft, 
 Waiting with a gentle motion, till the fateful moment 
 
 come, 
 Like a bolt to thunder downward on the quarry still and 
 
 dumb ! 
 So, but with a subtler motion, with insistence more in- 
 tense, 
 
THE WAKING OF EURYDICE. 227 
 
 Pierce a path, my lyre, with music to her inmost secret 
 
 sense ; 
 Thrill her soul with tenderest memories of a nobler life 
 
 than this, 
 Whisper to her of the fullness of our first enfolding 
 
 kiss, 
 Let her see the spicy torches, let her mark the friends 
 
 that fled, 
 Laughing folds of radiant purple round our rosy marriage 
 
 bed, 
 Fear that faded into rapture, as the night must fade in 
 
 day, 
 All the holy rites and secret that the priests of Love 
 
 obey ! 
 Sound, and if her shade awake not, nor take form of life 
 
 again, 
 Phoibos' self might wake the echoes of his Helicon in 
 
 vain. 
 
228 THE WAKING OF EURYDICE. 
 
 EURYDICE. 
 
 Ah ! the roots that bud with summer when they feel the 
 
 creeping rain, — 
 And the tingling pulse that thrills me, half with pleasure, 
 
 half with pain ! 
 Ah ! the secret fields of ocean, in their stirless hyaline, 
 When the skirts of storm sweep by them, — and this 
 
 shaken heart of mine ! 
 O forbear and leave me painless, as in time gone past I 
 
 was, 
 When my face found no reflection in the water's sheeny 
 
 glass ! 
 Hot and wild this tide returning, sore the shock where- 
 with it strains 
 This poor fount of life that murmurs in its coil of swelling 
 
 veins ! 
 Shades that hover round the circles of the nine rings of 
 
 the river, 
 
THE WAKING OF EURYDICE. 
 
 229 
 
 Come and free me, come in legions, crowd around me, 
 
 and deliver ! 
 Ah ! have pity, Love, and leave me, turn away that long- 
 
 ing face,- 
 
 Or unclose your arms and fold me in an infinite em- 
 brace ! 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 As one whom care and noisy thoughts distress 
 Puts out f 7-o in shore and sees the land grow /ess, 
 Delights to feel the sea so gray and vast, 
 But riots in its wealth of light at last ; 
 So he whose soul the voids of manhood fret, 
 Who sees the suns that rose beside him sit, 
 Who pales beneath the midnight lamp to find 
 The painted face of fame, with death behind, 
 Who learns that love may in a moment end, 
 And falsehood tarnish the clear name of friend, 
 Who saps the gilded world, and knows too well 
 That all is finite, all is mutable, — 
 Him nothing more can solace or appease, 
 No tedious counsels point the way to ease, 
 Unless his wounded heart be f rained like those 
 Round whom the bounteous arms of nature close , 
 But if of these he be I ah I strange delight 
 To pass from garish day to tender night! 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 To feci the cool and changeless earth contend 
 With calm revolving skies to be his friend ; 
 To watch each flower in fading, and to trust 
 'Twill soon reanimate the same dim dust : 
 In all the voiceless life that round him flows 
 To feel the same sere?ie and staid repose ! 
 
 He flies the sunlight in its summer strength, 
 And in a twilight forest flings his length, 
 J-eels silence first, and then in quiet mood, 
 Drinks in the noiseless music of the wood; 
 He joys to feel once more the generous heat 
 Of nature's bosom pulsing at his feet, 
 Grows blithe and pure as her mute nurselings do, 
 And wise to penetrate 'twixt false and true, 
 Till all the wounds that tore his spirit healed, 
 And something of their meaning half revealed, 
 lie gathers courage, and, with sober mind, 
 Comes back refreshed to combat with his kind. 
 
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