Part 4
Why from the quiet hollows of the hills, And extreme meeting place of light and shade, Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and became Clouds among sister clouds, where fair spent beams And dying glories of the sun would dwell,' Why have they whom I know not, nor may know, Strange hands, unseen and ruthless, fashioned me, And borne me from the silent shadowy hills, Hither, to noise and glow of alien life, To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war? One speaks unto me words that would be sweet, Made harsh, made keen with love that knows me not, And some strange force, within me or around,
Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh, And somewhere there is fever in the halls, That troubles me, for no such trouble came To vex the cool far hollows of the hills.
The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry, That house, and wife, and lands, and all Troy town, Are little to lose, if they may hold me here, And see me flit, a pale and silent shade,
Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines. At other hours another life seems mine, Where one great river runs unswollen of rain, By pyramids of unremembered kings, And homes of men obedient to the Dead. There dark and quiet faces come and go Around me, then again the shriek of arms, And all the turmoil of the Ilian men. What are they? even shadows such as I. What make they? Even this--the sport of Gods-- The sport of Gods, however free they seem. Ah would the game were ended, and the light, The blinding light, and all too mighty suns, Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades, Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist, Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills.
PISIDICÊ.
The incident is from the Love Stories of Parthenius, who preserved fragments of a lost epic on the expedition of Achilles against Lesbos, an island allied with Troy.
The daughter of the Lesbian king Within her bower she watched the war, Far off she heard the arrows ring, The smitten harness ring afar; And, fighting from the foremost car, Saw one that smote where all must flee; More fair than the Immortals are He seemed to fair Pisidicê!
She saw, she loved him, and her heart Before Achilles, Peleus' son, Threw all its guarded gates apart, A maiden fortress lightly won! And, ere that day of fight was done, No more of land or faith recked she, But joyed in her new life begun,-- Her life of love, Pisidicê!
She took a gift into her hand, As one that had a boon to crave; She stole across the ruined land Where lay the dead without a grave, And to Achilles' hand she gave Her gift, the secret postern's key. "To-morrow let me be thy slave!" Moaned to her love Pisidicê.
Ere dawn the Argives' clarion call Rang down Methymna's burning street; They slew the sleeping warriors all, They drove the women to the fleet, Save one, that to Achilles' feet Clung, but, in sudden wrath, cried he: "For her no doom but death is meet." And there men stoned Pisidicê.
In havens of that haunted coast, Amid the myrtles of the shore, The moon sees many a maiden ghost,-- Love's outcast now and evermore. The silence hears the shades deplore Their hour of dear-bought love; but _thee_ The waves lull, 'neath thine olives hoar, To dreamless rest, Pisidicê!
[1] From the Romaic.
SONNETS.
THE ODYSSEY.
As one that for a weary space has lain Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that Ææan isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine, As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again,-- So gladly, from the songs of modern speech Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, And through the music of the languid hours, They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS.
"Les Sirènes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de Proserpine, qu'elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste deuil de la perte de leur chère compagne, et enuyées jusques au desespoir, elles s'arrestèrent à la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l'unique fin de la volupté de leur musique est la Mort_."--Pontus de Tyard_ 1570.
I.
The Sirens once were maidens innocent That through the water-meads with Proserpine Plucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content Cool fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine, With lilies woven and with wet woodbine; Till forth to seek Ætnæan buds they went, And their kind lady from their choir was rent By Hades, down the irremeable decline. And they have sought her all the wide world through, Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong, Have filled and changed their song, and o'er the blue Rings deadly sweet the magic of the song, And whoso hears must listen till he die Far on the flowery shores of Sicily.
II.
So is it with this singing art of ours, That once with maids went, maidenlike, and played With woven dances in the poplar-shade, And all her song was but of lady's bowers And the returning swallows, and spring-flowers, Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed, A shadowy land; and now hath overweighed Her singing chaplet with the snow and showers. And running rivers for the bitter brine She left, and by the margin of life's sea Sings, and her song is full of the sea's moan, And wild with dread, and love of Proserpine; And whoso once has listened to her, he His whole life long is slave to her alone.
LOVE'S EASTER.
SONNET.
Love died here Long ago; O'er his bier, Lying low, Poppies throw; Shed no tear; Year by year, Roses blow!
Year by year, Adon--dear To Love's Queen-- Does not die! Wakes when green May is nigh!
TWILIGHT.
SONNET.
(AFTER RICHEPIN.)
Light has flown! Through the grey The wind's way The sea's moan Sound alone! For the day These repay And atone!
Scarce I know, Listening so To the streams Of the sea, If old dreams Sing to me!
BION.
The wail of Moschus on the mountains crying The Muses heard, and loved it long ago; They heard the hollows of the hills replying, They heard the weeping water's overflow; They winged the sacred strain--the song undying, The song that all about the world must go,-- When poets for a poet dead are sighing, The minstrels for a minstrel friend laid low.
And dirge to dirge that answers, and the weeping For Adonais by the summer sea, The plaints for Lycidas, and Thyrsis (sleeping Far from "the forest ground called Thessaly"),-- These hold thy memory, Bion, in their keeping, And are but echoes of the moan for thee.
SAN TERENZO.
(The village in the bay of Spezia, near which Shelley was living before the wreck of the Don Juan.)
Mid April seemed like some November day, When through the glassy waters, dull as lead, Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead, Slipped down the curved shores of the Spezian bay, Rounded a point,--and San Terenzo lay Before us, that gay village, yellow and red, With walls that covered Shelley's homeless head,--His house, a place deserted, bleak and grey.
The waves broke on the door-step; fishermen Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again. Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free, When suddenly the forest glades were stirred With waving pinions, and a great sea bird Flew forth, like Shelley's spirit, to the sea!
NATURAL THEOLOGY.
_ἐπει καὶ τοῡτον ὀΐομαι ἀθανατοισιν_ _ἔυχεσται· Πάντες δὲ θεῶν χατέουσ' ἄνθρωποι._ OD. III. 47.
"Once Cagn was like a father, kind and good, But He was spoiled by fighting many things; He wars upon the lions in the wood, And breaks the Thunder-bird's tremendous wings; But still we cry to Him,--_We are thy brood_-- _O Cagn, be merciful!_ and us He brings To herds of elands, and great store of food, And in the desert opens water-springs."
So Qing, King Nqsha's Bushman hunter, spoke, Beside the camp-fire, by the fountain fair, When all were weary, and soft clouds of smoke Were fading, fragrant, in the twilit air: And suddenly in each man's heart there woke A pang, a sacred memory of prayer.
HOMER.
Homer, thy song men liken to the sea, With all the notes of music in its tone, With tides that wash the dim dominion Of Hades, and light waves that laugh in glee Around the isles enchanted; nay, to me Thy verse seems as the River of source unknown That glasses Egypt's temples overthrown In his sky-nurtured stream, eternally.
No wiser we than men of heretofore To find thy sacred fountains guarded fast; Enough, thy flood makes green our human shore, As Nilus Egypt, rolling down his vast His fertile flood, that murmurs evermore Of gods dethroned, and empires in the past.
RONSARD.
Master, I see thee with the locks of grey, Crowned by the Muses with the laurel-wreath; I see the roses hiding underneath, Cassandra's gift; she was less dear than they. Thou, Master, first hast roused the lyric lay, The sleeping song that the dead years bequeath, Hast sung thine answer to the songs that breathe Through ages, and through ages far away.
And thou hast heard the pulse of Pindar beat, Known Horace by the fount Bardusian! Their deathless line thy living strains repeat, But ah, thy voice is sad, thy roses wan, But ah, thy honey is not cloying sweet, Thy bees have fed on yews Sardinian.
HOMEROC UNITY
The sacred keep of Ilion is rent With trench and shaft; foiled waters wander slow Through plains where Simois and Scamander went To war with Gods and heroes long ago. Not yet to tired Cassandra, lying low In rich Mycenae, do the Fates relent: The bones of Agamemnon are a show, And ruined is his royal monument.
The dust and awful treasures of the Dead, Hath Learning scattered wide, but vainly thee, Homer, she meteth with her tool of lead, And strives to rend thy songs; too blind to see The crown that burns on thine immortal head Of indivisible supremacy!
IN ITHACA.
"And now am I greatly repenting that ever I left my life with thee, and the immortality thou didst promise me."--_Letter of Odysseus to Calypso._ Luciani _Vera Historia_.
'Tis thought Odysseus when the strife was o'er With all the waves and wars, a weary while, Grew restless in his disenchanted isle, And still would watch the sunset, from the shore, Go down the ways of gold, and evermore His sad heart followed after, mile on mile, Back to the Goddess of the magic wile, Calypso, and the love that was of yore.
Thou too, thy haven gained, must turn thee yet To look across the sad and stormy space, Years of a youth as bitter as the sea, Ah, with a heavy heart, and eyelids wet, Because, within a fair forsaken place The life that might have been is lost to thee.
DREAMS.
He spake not truth, however wise,[1] who said "That happy, and that hapless men in sleep Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deep As countless, careless, races of the dead." Not so, for alien paths of dreams we tread, And one beholds the faces that he sighs In vain to bring before his day lit eyes, And waking, he remembers on his bed;
And one with fainting heart and feeble hand Fights a dim battle in a doubtful land, Where strength and courage were of no avail; And one is borne on fairy breezes far To the bright harbours of a golden star Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale.
GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
Of all that were thy prisons--ah, untamed, Ah, light and sacred soul!--none holds thee now; No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou Art free and happy in the lands unnamed, Within whose gates, with weary wings and maimed, Thou still would'st bear that mystic golden bough The Sibyl doth to singing men allow, Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed. And they would smile and wonder, seeing where Thou stood'st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind, Dreamily murmuring a ballad air, Caught from the Valois peasants; dost thou find A new life gladder than the old times were, A love as fair as Sylvie, and more kind?
IDEAL.
Suggested by a female head in wax, of unknown date, but supposed to be either of the best Greek age, or a work of Raphael or Leonardo. It is now in the Lille Museum.
Ah, mystic child of Beauty, nameless maid, Dateless and fatherless, how long ago, A Greek, with some rare sadness overweighed, Shaped thee, perchance, and quite forgot his woe! Or Raphael thy sweetness did bestow, While magical his fingers o'er thee strayed, Or that great pupil of Verrocchio Redeemed thy still perfection from the shade
That hides all fair things lost, and things unborn, Where one has fled from me, that wore thy grace, And that grave tenderness of thine awhile; Nay, still in dreams I see her, but her face Is pale, is wasted with a touch of scorn, And only on thy lips I find her smile.
[1] Aristotle.
TRANSLATIONS.
HYMN TO THE WINDS
The winds are invoked by the winnowers of corn.
_Du Bellay, 1550._
To you, troop so fleet, That with winged wandering feet Through the wide world pass, And with soft murmuring Toss the green shades of spring In woods and grass, Lily and violet I give, and blossoms wet, Roses and dew; This branch of blushing roses, Whose fresh bud uncloses, Wind-flowers too. Ah, winnow with sweet breath, Winnow the holt and heath, Round this retreat; Where all the golden mom We fan the gold o' the corn In the sun's heat.
A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS.
_Du Bellay, 1550_.
We that with like hearts love, we lovers twain, New wedded in the village by thy fane, Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is We bring these amaranths, these white lilies, A sign, and sacrifice; may Love, we pray, Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay; Like these cool lilies may our loves remain, Perfect and pure, and know not any stain; And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour, Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower.
APRIL.
_Remy Belleau_, 1560.
April, pride of woodland ways, Of glad days, April, bringing hope of prime To the young flowers that beneath Their bud sheath Are guarded in their tender time;
April, pride of fields that be Green and free, That in fashion glad and gay Stud with flowers red and blue, Every hue, Their jewelled spring array;
April, pride of murmuring Winds of spring, That beneath the winnowed air Trap with subtle nets and sweet Flora's feet, Flora's feet, the fleet and fair;
April, by thy hand caressed, From her breast Nature scatters everywhere Handfuls of all sweet perfumes, Buds and blooms, Making faint the earth and air.
April, joy of the green hours, Clothes with flowers Over all her locks of gold My sweet Lady; and her breast With the blest Buds of summer manifold.
April, with thy gracious wiles, Like the smiles, Smiles of Venus; and thy breath Like her breath, the Gods' delight, (From their height They take the happy air beneath;)
It is thou that, of thy grace, From their place In the far-off isles dost bring Swallows over earth and sea, Glad to be Messengers of thee, and Spring.
Daffodil and eglantine, And woodbine, Lily, violet, and rose Plentiful in April fair, To the air, Their pretty petals do unclose.
Nightingales ye now may hear, Piercing clear, Singing in the deepest shade; Many and many a babbled note Chime and float, Woodland music through the glade.
April, all to welcome thee, Spring sets free Ancient flames, and with low breath Wakes the ashes grey and old That the cold Chilled within our hearts to death.
Thou beholdest in the warm Hours, the swarm Of the thievish bees, that flies Evermore from bloom to bloom For perfume, Hid away in tiny thighs.
Her cool shadows May can boast, Fruits almost Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew, Manna-sweet and honey-sweet, That complete Her flower garland fresh and new.
Nay, but I will give my praise To these days, Named with the glad name of her[1] That from out the foam o' the sea Came to be Sudden light on earth and air.
OF HIS LADY'S OLD AGE.
_Ronsard, 1550._
When you are very old, at evening You 'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, Humming my songs, "Ah well, ah well-a-day! When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing." None of your maidens that doth hear the thing, Albeit with her weary task fore done, But wakens at my name, and calls you one Blest, to be held in long remembering.
I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade, While you beside the fire, a grandame grey, My love, your pride, remember and regret; Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet, And gather roses, while 't is called to-day.
SHADOWS OF HIS LADY.
_Jacques Tahureau, 1527-1555_.
Within the sand of what far river lies The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love? What highest circle of the Heavens above Is jewelled with such stars as are her eyes? And where is the rich sea whose coral vies With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough? What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof The fled soul lives in her cheeks' rosy guise?
What Parian marble that is loveliest, Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast? When drew she breath from the Sabæan glade? Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea, Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that be The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!
MOONLIGHT.
_Jacques Tahureau, 1527-1555_.
The high Midnight was garlanding her head With many a shining star in shining skies, And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes, And, after sorrow, quietness was shed. Far in dim fields cicalas jargoned A thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries; And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise, With pallor of the sad moon overspread.
Then came my lady to that lonely place, And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over; Wherefore the day is far less dear than night, And sweeter is the shadow than the light, Since night has made me such a happy lover.
THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE.
VICTOR HUGO.
The Grave said to the Rose, "What of the dews of dawn, Love's flower, what end is theirs?" "And what of spirits flown, The souls whereon doth close The tomb's mouth unawares?" The Rose said to the Grave.
The Rose said, "In the shade From the dawn's tears is made A perfume faint and strange, Amber and honey sweet." "And all the spirits fleet Do suffer a sky-change, More strangely than the dew, To God's own angels new," The Grave said to the Rose.
THE BIRTH OF BUTTERFLIES.
VICTOR HUGO.
He dawn is smiling on the dew that covers The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings, That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide, With muffled music, murmured far and wide! Ah, Spring time, when we think of all the lays That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays, Of the fond hearts within a billet bound, Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound, The messages of love that mortals write Filled with intoxication of delight, Written in April, and before the May time Shredded and flown, play things for the wind's playtime, We dream that all white butterflies above, Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love, And leave their lady mistress in despair, To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair, Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.
AN OLD TUNE.
GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
There is an air for which I would disown Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies,-- A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
Whene'er I hear that music vague and old, Two hundred years are mist that rolls away; The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold A green land golden in the dying* day.
An old red castle, strong with stony towers, The windows gay with many coloured glass, Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, A lady looks forth from her window high; It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by.
SPRING IN THE STUDENT'S QUARTER.
HENRI MURGER.
Winter is passing, and the bells For ever with their silver lay Murmur a melody that tells Of April and of Easter day. High in the sweet air the light vane sets, The weathercocks all southward twirl; A son will buy her violets And make Nini a happy girl.
The winter to the poor was sore, Counting the weary winter days, Watching his little fire-wood store, The bitter snow-flakes fell always; And now his last log dimly gleamed, Lighting the room with feeble glare, Half cinder and half smoke it seemed That the wind wafted into air.
Pilgrims from ocean and far isles See where the east is reddening, The flocks that fly a thousand miles From sunsetting to sunsetting; Look up, look out, behold the swallows, The throats that twitter, the wings that beat; And on their song the summer follows, And in the summer life is sweet.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
With the green tender buds that know The shoot and sap of lusty spring My neighbour of a year ago Her casement, see, is opening; Through all the bitter months that were, Forth from her nest she dared not flee, She was a study for Boucher, She now might sit to Gavami.
SPRING.
(_After Meleager_.)
Now the bright crocus flames, and now The slim narcissus takes the rain, And, straying o'er the mountain's brow, The daffodilies bud again. The thousand blossoms wax and wane On wold, and heath, and fragrant bough; But fairer than the flowers art thou, Than any growth of hill or plain.