Part 3
O, ruined chapel, long ago We loitered idly where the tall Fresh budded mountain ashes blow Within thy desecrated wall:
The tough roots broke the tomb below, The April birds sang clamorous, We did not dream, we could not know How soon the Fates would sunder us!
O, broken minster, looking forth Beyond the bay, above the town, O, 'winter of the kindly North, O, college of the scarlet gown, And shining sands beside the sea, And stretch of links beyond the sand, Once more I watch you, and to me It is as if I touched his hand!
And therefore art thou yet more dear, O, little city, grey and sere, Though shrunken from thine ancient pride And lonely by thy lonely sea, Than these fair halls on Isis' side, Where Youth an hour came back to me
A land of waters green and clear, Of willows and of poplars tall, And, in the spring time of the year, The white may breaking over all,
And Pleasure quick to come at call. And summer rides by marsh and wold, And Autumn with her crimson pall About the towers of Magdalen[1] rolled; And strange enchantments from the past, And memories of the friends of old, And strong Tradition, binding fast The "flying terms" with bands of gold,--
All these hath Oxford: all are dear, But dearer far the little town, The drifting surf, the wintry year, The college of the scarlet gown, _St. Andrews by the Northern sea_, _That is a haunted town to me_!
NIGHTINGALE WEATHER.
'Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non? Serai-je nonnette? je crois que non. Derrière chez mon père Il est un bois taillis, Le rossignol y chante Et le jour et la nuit Il chante pour les filles Qui n'ont pas d'ami; Il ne chante pas pour moi, J'en ai un, Dieu merci.'--OLD FRENCH.
I 'll never be a nun, I trow, While apple bloom is white as snow. But far more fair to see; I 'll never wear nun's black and white While nightingales make sweet the night Within the apple tree.
Ah, listen! 'tis the nightingale, And in the wood he makes his wail, Within the apple tree; He singeth of the sore distress Of many ladies loverless; Thank God, no song for me.
For when the broad May moon is low, A gold fruit seen where blossoms blow In the boughs of the apple tree, A step I know is at the gate; Ah love, but it is long to wait Until night's noon bring thee!
Between lark's song and nightingale's A silent space, while dawning pales, The birds leave still and free For words and kisses musical, For silence and for sighs that fall In the dawn, 'twixt him and me.
COLINETTE.
FOR A SKETCH BY MR. G. LESLIE, A.R.A.
France your country, as we know; Room enough for guessing yet, What lips now or long ago, Kissed and named you--Colinette. In what fields from sea to sea, By what stream your home was set, Loire or Seine was glad of thee, Marne or Rhone, O Colinette?
Did you stand with "maidens ten, Fairer maids were never seen," When the young king and his men Passed among the orchards green? Nay, old ballads have a note Mournful, we would fain forget; No such sad old air should float Round your young brows, Colinette.
Say, did Ronsard sing to you, Shepherdess, to lull his pain, When the court went wandering through Rose pleasances of Touraine? Ronsard and his famous Rose Long are dust the breezes fret; You, within the garden close, You are blooming, Colinette.
Have I seen you proud and gay, With a patched and perfumed beau, Dancing through the summer day, Misty summer of Watteau? Nay, so sweet a maid as you Never walked a minuet With the splendid courtly crew; Nay, forgive me, Colinette.
Not from Greuze's canvasses Do you cast a glance, a smile; You are not as one of these, Yours is beauty without guile. Round your maiden brows and hair Maidenhood and Childhood met, Crown and kiss you, sweet and fair, New art's blossom, Colinette.
FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST.
Returning from what other seas Dost thou renew thy murmuring, Weak Tide, and hast thou aught of these To tell, the shores where float and cling My love, my hope, my memories?
Say does my lady wake to note The gold light into silver die? Or do thy waves make lullaby, While dreams of hers, like angels, float Through star-sown spaces of the sky?
Ah, would such angels came to me That dreams of mine might speak with hers, Nor wake the slumber of the sea With words as low as winds that be Awake among the gossamers!
A DREAM
Why will you haunt my sleep? You know it may not be, The grave is wide and deep, That sunders you and me; In bitter dreams we reap The sorrow we have sown, And I would I were asleep, Forgotten and alone!
We knew and did not know, We saw and did not see, The nets that long ago Fate wove for you and me; The cruel nets that keep The birds that sob and moan, And I would we were asleep, Forgotten and alone!
TWILIGHT ON TWEED.
Three crests against the saffron sky, Beyond the purple plain, The dear remembered melody Of Tweed once more again.
Wan water from the border hills, Dear voice from the old years, Thy distant music lulls and stills, And moves to quiet tears.
Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood Fleets through the dusky land; Where Scott, come home to die, has stood, My feet returning stand.
A mist of memory broods and floats, The border waters flow; The air is full of ballad notes, Borne out of long ago.
Old songs that sung themselves to me, Sweet through a boy's day dream, While trout below the blossom'd tree Plashed in the golden stream.
* * * * * * * *¨* * * * * * *
Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill, Fair and thrice fair you be; You tell me that the voice is still That should have welcomed me. 1870.
A SUNSET OF WATTEAU
LUI.
The silk sail fills, the soft winds wake, Arise and tempt the seas; Our ocean is the Palace lake, Our waves the ripples that we make Among the mirrored trees.
ELLE.
Nay, sweet the shore, and sweet the song, And dear the languid dream; The music mingled all day long With paces of the dancing throng, And murmur of the stream.
An hour ago, an hour ago, We rested in the shade; And now, why should we seek to know What way the wilful waters flow? There is no fairer glade.
LUI.
Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail, And seek him everywhere; Perchance in sunset's golden pale He listens to the nightingale, Amid the perfumed air.
Come, he has fled; you are not you, And I no more am I; Delight is changeful as the hue Of heaven, that is no longer blue In yonder sunset sky.
ELLE.
Nay, if we seek we shall not find, If we knock none openeth; Nay, see, the sunset fades behind The mountains, and the cold night wind Blows from the house of Death.
ROMANCE.
My Love dwelt in a Northern land. A grey tower in a forest green Was his, and far on either hand The long wash of the waves was seen, And leagues on leagues of yellow sand, The woven forest boughs between!
And through the clear faint Northern night The sunset slowly died away, And herds of strange deer, silver-white, Stole forth among the branches grey; About the coming of the light, They fled like ghosts before the day!
I know not if the forest green Still girdles round that castle grey; I know not if the boughs between The white deer vanish ere the day; Above my Love the grass is green, My heart is colder than the clay!
A SUNSET ON YARROW
The wind and the day had lived together, They died together, and far away Spoke farewell in the sultry weather, Out of the sunset, over the heather, The dying wind and the dying day.
Far in the south, the summer levin Flushed, a flame in the grey soft air: We seemed to look on the hills of heaven; You saw within, but to me 'twas given To see your face, as an angel's, there.
Never again, ah surely never, Shall we wait and watch, where of old we stood, The low good-night of the hill and the river, The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver, Twain grown one in the solitude.
A PORTRAIT OF 1783.
Your hair and chin are like the hair And chin Burne-Jones's ladies wear; You were unfashionably fair And sad you were when girls are gay, You read a book about _Le vrai_ _Mérite de l'homme_, alone in May. What _can_ it be, _Le vrai mérite de l'homme?_ Not gold, Not titles that are bought and sold, Not wit that flashes and is cold, But Virtue merely! Instructed by Jean-Jacques Rousseau (And Jean-Jacques, surely, ought to know), You bade the crowd of foplings go, You glanced severely,
Dreaming beneath the spreading shade Of "that vast hat the Graces made";[2] So Rouget sang--while yet he played With courtly rhyme, And hymned great Doisi's red perruque, And Nice's eyes, and Zulmé's look, And dead canaries, ere he shook The sultry time With strains like thunder. Loud and low Methinks I hear the murmur grow, The tramp of men that come and go With fire and sword. They war against the quick and dead, Their flying feet are dashed with red, As theirs the vintaging that tread Before the Lord. O head unfashionably fair, What end was thine, for all thy care? We only see thee dreaming there: We cannot see The breaking of thy vision, when The Rights of Man were lords of men, When virtue won her own again In '93.
THE BARBAROUS BIRD-GODS: A SAVAGE PARABASIS.
[The myth in the "Birds" of Aristophanes, which represents Birds as older than the Gods, may have been a genuine Greek tradition. The following lines show how prevalent is the myth among widely severed races. The Mexican Bird-gods I omit; who can rhyme to Huitzilopochtli?]
_The Birds Sing_:
We would have you to wit, that on eggs though we sit, and are spiked on the spit, and are baked in the pan, Birds are older by far than your ancestors are, and made love and made war ere the making of Man! For when all things were dark, not a glimmer nor spark, and the world like a barque without rudder or sail Floated on through the night, 't was a Bird struck a light, 't was a flash from the bright feather'd Tonatiu's[3] tail! Then the Hawk[4] with some dry wood flew up in the sky, and afar, safe and high, the Hawk lit Sun and Moon, And the Birds of the air they rejoiced everywhere, and they recked not of care that should come on them soon. For the Hawk, so they tell, was then known as Pundjel,[5] and a-musing he fell at the close of the day; Then he went on the quest, as we thought, of a nest, with some bark of the best, and a clawful of clay,[6] And with these did he frame two birds lacking a name, without feathers (his game was a puzzle to all); Next around them he fluttered a-dancing, and muttered; and, lastly, he uttered a magical call: Then the figures of clay, as they featherless lay, they leaped up, who but they, and embracing they fell, And _this_ was the baking of Man, and his making; but now he's forsaking his Father, Pundjel! Now these creatures of mire, they kept whining for fire, and to crown their desire who was found but the Wren?
To the high heaven he came, from the Sun stole he flame, and for this has a name in the memory of men![7] And in India who for the Soma juice flew, and to men brought it through without falter or fail? Why the Hawk 't was again, and great Indra to men would appear, now and then, in the shape of a Quail, While the Thlinkeet's delight is the Bird of the Night, the beak and the bright ebon plumage of Yehl.[8] And who for man's need brought the famed Suttung's mead? why 't is told in the creed of the Sagamen strong, 'T was the Eagle god who brought the drink from the blue, and gave mortals the brew that's the fountain of song.[9] Next, who gave men their laws? and what reason or cause the young brave overawes when in need of a squaw, Till he thinks it a shame to wed one of his name, and his conduct you blame if he thus breaks the law? For you still hold it wrong if a _lubra_[10] belong to the self-same _kobong_[11] that is Father of you, To take _her_ as a bride to your ebony side; nay, you give her a wide berth; quite right of you, too. For _her_ father, you know, is _your_ father, the Crow, and no blessing but woe from the wedding would spring. Well, these rules they were made in the wattle-gum shade, and were strictly obeyed, when the Crow was the King.[12] Thus on Earth's little ball to the Birds you owe all, yet your gratitude's small for the favours they've done, And their feathers you pill, and you eat them at will, yes, you plunder and kill the bright birds one by one; There 's a price on their head, and the Dodo is dead, and the Moa has fled from the sight of the sun!
[1] Pronounced "Maudlin."
[2]
Vous y verrez, belle Julie, Que ce chapeau tout maltraité Fut, dans un instant de folie, Par les Grâces même invente.
"À Julie." _Essais en Prose et en Vers_, par Joseph Lisle; Paris, An. V. de la République.
[3] Tonatiu, the Thunder Bird; well known to the Dacotahs and Zulus.
[4] The Hawk, in the myth of the Galinameros of Central California, lit up the Sun.
[5] Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, is the demiurge and "culture-hero" of several Australian tribes.
[6] The Creation of Man is thus described by the Australians.
[7] In Andaman, Thlinkeet, Melanesian, and other myths, a Bird is the Prometheus Purphoros; in Normandy this part is played by the Wren.
[8] Yehl: the Raven God of the Thlinkeets.
[9] Indra stole Soma as a Hawk and as a Quail. For Odin's feat as a Bird, see _Bragi's Telling_ in the Younger Edda.
[10] Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, gave Australians their marriage laws.
[11] _Lubra_, a woman; _kobong_, "totem"; or, to please Mr. Max Müller, "otem."
[12] The Crow was the Hawk's rival.
POST HOMERICA.
HESPEROTHEN.
By the example of certain Grecian mariners, who, being safely returned from the war about Troy, leave yet again their old lands and gods, seeking they know not what, and choosing neither to abide in the fair Phæacian island, nor to dwell and die with the Sirens, at length end miserably in a desert country by the sea, is set forth the _Vanity of Melancholy_. And by the land of Phæacia is to be understood the place of Art and of fair Pleasures; and by Circe's Isle, the places of bodily delights, whereof men, falling aweary attain to Eld, and to the darkness of that age. Which thing Master Françoys Rabelais feigned, under the similitude of the Isle of the Macræones.
THE SEEKERS FOR PHÆACIA.
There is a land in the remotest day, Where the soft night is born, and sunset dies; The eastern shores see faint tides fade away, That wash the lands where laughter, tears, and sighs, Make life,--the lands beneath the blue of common, skies.
But in the west is a mysterious sea, (What sails have seen it, or what shipmen known?) With coasts enchanted where the Sirens be, With islands where a Goddess walks alone, And in the cedar trees the magic winds make moan.
Eastward the human cares of house and home, Cities, and ships, and unknown Gods, and loves; Westward, strange maidens fairer than the foam, And lawless lives of men, and haunted groves, Wherein a God may dwell, and where the Dryad roves.
The Gods are careless of the days and death Of toilsome men, beyond the western seas; The Gods are heedless of their painful breath, And love them not, for they are not as these; But in the golden west they live and lie at ease.
Yet the Phæacians well they love, who live At the light's limit, passing careless hours, Most like the Gods; and they have gifts to give, Even wine, and fountains musical, and flowers, And song, and if they will, swift ships, and magic powers.
It is a quiet midland; in the cool Of twilight comes the God, though no man prayed, To watch the maids and young men beautiful Dance, and they see him, and are not afraid, For they are near of kin to Gods, and undismayed.
Ah, would the bright red prows might bring us nigh The dreamy isles that the Immortals keep! But with a mist they hide them wondrously, And far the path and dim to where they sleep,-- The loved, the shadowy lands along the shadowy deep.
THE DEPARTURE FROM PHÆACIA.
THE PHÆACIANS.
Why from the dreamy meadows, More fair than any dream, Why will you seek the shadows Beyond the ocean stream?
Through straits of storm and peril, Through firths unsailed before, Why make you for the sterile, The dark Kimmerian shore?
There no bright streams are flowing, There day and night are one, No harvest time, no sowing, No sight of any sun;
No sound of song or tabor, No dance shall greet you there; No noise of mortal labour, Breaks on the blind chill air.
Are ours not happy places, Where Gods with mortals trod? Saw not our sires the faces Of many a present God?
THE SEEKERS.
Nay, now no God comes hither, In shape that men may see; They fare we know not whither, We know not what they be.
Yea, though the sunset lingers Far in your fairy glades, Though yours the sweetest singers, Though yours the kindest maids,
Yet here be the true shadows, Here in the doubtful light; Amid the dreamy meadows No shadow haunts the night.
We seek a city splendid, With light beyond the sun; Or lands where dreams are ended, And works and days are done.
A BALLAD OF DEPARTURE.[1]
Fair white bird, what song art thou singing In wintry weather of lands o'er sea? Dear white bird, what way art thou winging, Where no grass grows, and no green tree?
I looked at the far off fields and grey, There grew no tree but the cypress tree, That bears sad fruits with the flowers of May, And whoso looks on it, woe is he.
And whoso eats of the fruit thereof Has no more sorrow, and no more love; And who sets the same in his garden stead, In a little space he is waste and dead.
We seek a city splendid, With light beyond the sun; Or lands where dreams are ended, And works and days are done.
THEY HEAR THE SIRENS FOR THE SECOND TIME.
The weary sails a moment slept, The oars were silent for a space, As past Hesperian shores we swept, That were as a remembered face Seen after lapse of hopeless years, In Hades, when the shadows meet, Dim through the mist of many tears, And strange, and though a shadow, sweet.
So seemed the half-remembered shore, That slumbered, mirrored in the blue, With havens where we touched of yore, And ports that over well we knew. Then broke the calm before a breeze That sought the secret of the west; And listless all we swept the seas Towards the Islands of the Blest.
Beside a golden sanded bay We saw the Sirens, very fair The flowery hill whereon they lay, The flowers set upon their hair. Their old sweet song came down the wind. Remembered music waxing strong, Ah now no need of cords to bind, No need had we of Orphic song.
It once had seemed a little thing, To lay our lives down at their feet, That dying we might hear them sing, And dying see their faces sweet; But now, we glanced, and passing by, No care had we to tarry long; Faint hope, and rest, and memory Were more than any Siren's song.
CIRCE'S ISLE REVISITED.
Ah, Circe, Circe! in the wood we cried; Ah, Circe, Circe! but no voice replied; No voice from bowers o'ergrown and ruinous As fallen rocks upon the mountain side.
There was no sound of singing in the air; Faded or fled the maidens that were fair, No more for sorrow or joy were seen of us, No light of laughing eyes, or floating hair.
The perfume, and the music, and the flame Had passed away; the memory of shame Alone abode, and stings of faint desire, And pulses of vague quiet went and came.
Ah, Circe! in thy sad changed fairy place, Our dead Youth came and looked on us a space, With drooping wings, and eyes of faded fire, And wasted hair about a weary face.
Why had we ever sought the magic isle That seemed so happy in the days erewhile? Why did we ever leave it, where we met A world of happy wonders in one smile?
Back to the westward and the waning light We turned, we fled; the solitude of night Was better than the infinite regret, In fallen places of our dead delight.
THE LIMIT OF LANDS.
Between the circling ocean sea And the poplars of Persephone There lies a strip of barren sand, Flecked with the sea's last spray, and strown With waste leaves of the poplars, blown From gardens of the shadow land.
With altars of old sacrifice The shore is set, in mournful wise The mists upon the ocean brood; Between the water and the air The clouds are born that float and fare Between the water and the wood.
Upon the grey sea never sail Of mortals passed within our hail, Where the last weak waves faint and flow; We heard within the poplar pale The murmur of a doubtful wail Of voices loved so long ago.
We scarce had care to die or live, We had no honey cake to give, No wine of sacrifice to shed; There lies no new path over sea, And now we know how faint they be, The feasts and voices of the Dead.
Ah, flowers and dance! ah, sun and snow! Glad life, sad life we did forego To dream of quietness and rest; Ah, would the fleet sweet roses here Poured light and perfume through the drear Pale year, and wan land of the west.
Sad youth, that let the spring go by Because the spring is swift to fly, Sad youth, that feared to mourn or love, Behold how sadder far is this, To know that rest is nowise bliss, And darkness is the end thereof.
THE SHADE OF HELEN.
Some say that Helen went never to Troy, but abode in Egypt; for the Gods, having made in her semblance a woman out of clouds and shadows, sent the same to be wife to Paris. For this shadow then the Greeks and Trojans slew each other.
(_Written in the Pyrenees_.)