Chapter 588

Blushing, sweet with virgin blushes, All her loveliness a-flame, Stands she in the orient waters, Stricken o'er with speechless shame!

Ah! but lovelier, ever lovelier, As more deep the colour glows, And the honey-laden lily Changes to the fragrant rose.

While the god with meek embraces, Whispering all his sacred charms, Softly folds her, gently holds her, In his white encircling arms!

But, O Dian! veil not wholly Thy pale crescent from the morn! Vanish not, O virgin goddess, With that look of pallid scorn!

Still thy pure protecting influence Shed from those fair watchful eyes! - Lo! her angry orb has vanished, And the bright sun thrones the skies!

Voicelessly the forest Virgin Vanished! but one look she gave - Keen as Niobean arrow Thro' the maiden's heart it drave.

Thus toward that throning bosom Where all earth is warmed,--each spot Nourished with autumnal blessings - Icy chill was Daphne caught.

Icy chill! but swift revulsion All her gentler self renewed, Even as icy Winter quickens With bud-opening warmth imbued.

Even as a torpid brooklet, That to the night-gleaming moon Flashed in turn the frozen glances, Melts upon the breast of noon.

But no more--O never, never, Turns she to that bosom bright, Swiftly all her senses counsel, All her nerves are strung to flight.

O'er the brows of radiant Pindus Rolls a shadow dark and cold, And a sound of lamentation Issues from its mournful fold.

Voice of the far-sighted Muses! Cry of keen foreboding song! Every cleft of startled Tempe Tingles with it sharp and long.

Over bourn and bosk and dingle, Over rivers, over rills, Runs the sad subservient Echo Toward the dim blue distant hills!

And another and another! 'Tis a cry more wild than all; And the hills with muffled voices Answer 'Daphne!' to the call.

And another and another! 'Tis a cry so wildly sweet, That her charmed heart turns rebel To the instinct of her feet;

And she pauses for an instant; But his arms have scarcely slid Round her waist in cestian girdles, And his low voluptuous lid

Lifted pleading, and the honey Of his mouth for hers athirst, Ruby glistening, raised for moisture - Like a bud that waits to burst

In the sweet espousing showers - And his tongue has scarce begun With its inarticulate burthen, And the clouds scarce show the sun

As it pierces thro' a crevice Of the mass that closed it o'er, When again the horror flashes - And she turns to flight once more!

And again o'er radiant Pindus Rolls the shadow dark and cold, And the sound of lamentation Issues from its sable fold!

And again the light winds chide her As she darts from his embrace - And again the far-voiced echoes Speak their tidings of the chase.

Loudly now as swiftly, swiftly, O'er the glimmering sands she speeds; Wildly now as in the furzes From the piercing spikes she bleeds.

Deeply and with direful anguish, As above each crimson drop Passion checks the god Apollo, And love bids him weep and stop. -

He above each drop of crimson Shadowing--like the laurel leaf That above himself will shadow - Sheds a fadeless look of grief.

Then with love's remorseful discord, With its own desire at war, Sighing turns, while dimly fleeting Daphne flies the chase afar.

But all nature is against her! Pan, with all his sylvan troop, Thro' the vista'd woodland valleys Blocks her course with cry and whoop!

In the twilights of the thickets Trees bend down their gnarled boughs, Wild green leaves and low curved branches Hold her hair and beat her brows.

Many a brake of brushwood covert, Where cold darkness slumbers mute, Slips a shrub to thwart her passage, Slides a hand to clutch her foot.

Glens and glades of lushest verdure Toil her in their tawny mesh, Wilder-woofed ways and alleys Lock her struggling limbs in leash.

Feathery grasses, flowery mosses, Knot themselves to make her trip; Sprays and stubborn sprigs outstretching Put a bridle on her lip;

Many a winding lane betrays her, Many a sudden bosky shoot, And her knee makes many a stumble O'er some hidden damp old root,

Whose quaint face peers green and dusky 'Mongst the matted growth of plants, While she rises wild and weltering, Speeding on with many pants.

Tangles of the wild red strawberry Spread their freckled trammels frail; In the pathway creeping brambles Catch her in their thorny trail.

All the widely sweeping greensward Shifts and swims from knoll to knoll; Grey rough-fingered oak and elm wood Push her by from bole to bole.

Groves of lemon, groves of citron, Tall high-foliaged plane and palm, Bloomy myrtle, light-blue olive, Wave her back with gusts of balm.

Languid jasmine, scrambling briony, Walls of close-festooning braid, Fling themselves about her, mingling With her wafted looks, waylaid.

Twisting bindweed, honey'd woodbine, Cling to her, while, red and blue, On her rounded form ripe berries Dash and die in gory dew.

Running ivies dark and lingering Round her light limbs drag and twine; Round her waist with languorous tendrils Reels and wreathes the juicy vine;

Reining in the flying creature With its arms about her mouth; Bursting all its mellowing bunches To seduce her husky drouth;

Crowning her with amorous clusters; Pouring down her sloping back Fresh-born wines in glittering rillets, Following her in crimson track.

Buried, drenched in dewy foliage, Thus she glimmers from the dawn, Watched by every forest creature, Fleet-foot Oread, frolic Faun.

Silver-sandalled Arethusa Not more swiftly fled the sands, Fled the plains and fled the sunlights, Fled the murmuring ocean strands.

O, that now the earth would open! O, that now the shades would hide! O, that now the gods would shelter! Caverns lead and seas divide!

Not more faint soft-lowing Io Panted in those starry eyes, When the sleepless midnight meadows Piteously implored the skies!

Still her breathless flight she urges By the sanctuary stream, And the god with golden swiftness Follows like an eastern beam.

Her the close bewildering greenery Darkens with its duskiest green, - Him each little leaflet welcomes, Flushing with an orient sheen.

Thus he nears, and now all Tempe Rings with his melodious cry, Avenues and blue expanses Beam in his large lustrous eye!

All the branches start to music! As if from a secret spring Thousands of sweet bills are bubbling In the nest and on the wing.

Gleams and shines the glassy river And rich valleys every one; But of all the throbbing beauty Brightest! singled by the sun!

Ivy round her glimmering ancle, Vine about her glowing brow, Never sure was bride so beauteous, Daphne, chosen nymph, as thou!

Thus he nears! and now she feels him Breathing hot on every limb; And he hears her own quick pantings - Ah! that they might be for him.

O, that like the flower he tramples, Bending from his golden tread, Full of fair celestial ardours, She would bow her bridal head.

O, that like the flower she presses, Nodding from her lily touch, Light as in the harmless breezes, She would know the god for such!

See! the golden arms are round her - To the air she grasps and clings! See! his glowing arms have wound her - To the sky she shrieks and springs!

See! the flushing chace of Tempe Trembles with Olympian air - See! green sprigs and buds are shooting From those white raised arms of prayer!

In the earth her feet are rooting! - Breasts and limbs and lifted eyes, Hair and lips and stretching fingers, Fade away--and fadeless rise.

And the god whose fervent rapture Clasps her finds his close embrace Full of palpitating branches, And new leaves that bud apace,

Bound his wonder-stricken forehead; - While in ebbing measures slow Sounds of softly dying pulses Pause and quiver, pause and go;

Go, and come again, and flutter On the verge of life,--then flee! All the white ambrosial beauty Is a lustrous Laurel Tree!

Still with the great panting love-chase All its running sap is warmed; - But from head to foot the virgin Is transfigured and transformed.

Changed!--yet the green Dryad nature Is instinct with human ties, And above its anguish'd lover Breathes pathetic sympathies;

Sympathies of love and sorrow; Joy in her divine escape; Breathing through her bursting foliage Comfort to his bending shape.

Vainly now the floating Naiads Seek to pierce the laurel maze, Nought but laurel meets their glances, Laurel glistens as they gaze.

Nought but bright prophetic laurel! Laurel over eyes and brows, Over limbs and over bosom, Laurel leaves and laurel boughs!

And in vain the listening Dryad Shells her hand against her ear! - All is silence--save the echo Travelling in the distance drear.

LONDON BY LAMPLIGHT

There stands a singer in the street, He has an audience motley and meet; Above him lowers the London night, And around the lamps are flaring bright.

His minstrelsy may be unchaste - 'Tis much unto that motley taste, And loud the laughter he provokes From those sad slaves of obscene jokes.

But woe is many a passer by Who as he goes turns half an eye, To see the human form divine Thus Circe-wise changed into swine!

Make up the sum of either sex That all our human hopes perplex, With those unhappy shapes that know The silent streets and pale cock-crow.

And can I trace in such dull eyes Of fireside peace or country skies? And could those haggard cheeks presume To memories of a May-tide bloom?

Those violated forms have been The pride of many a flowering green; And still the virgin bosom heaves With daisy meads and dewy leaves.

But stygian darkness reigns within The river of death from the founts of sin; And one prophetic water rolls Its gas-lit surface for their souls.

I will not hide the tragic sight - Those drown'd black locks, those dead lips white, Will rise from out the slimy flood, And cry before God's throne for blood!

Those stiffened limbs, that swollen face, - Pollution's last and best embrace, Will call, as such a picture can, For retribution upon man.

Hark! how their feeble laughter rings, While still the ballad-monger sings, And flatters their unhappy breasts With poisonous words and pungent jests.

O how would every daisy blush To see them 'mid that earthy crush! O dumb would be the evening thrush, And hoary look the hawthorn bush!

The meadows of their infancy Would shrink from them, and every tree, And every little laughing spot, Would hush itself and know them not.

Precursor to what black despairs Was that child's face which once was theirs! And O to what a world of guile Was herald that young angel smile!

That face which to a father's eye Was balm for all anxiety; That smile which to a mother's heart Went swifter than the swallow's dart!

O happy homes! that still they know At intervals, with what a woe Would ye look on them, dim and strange, Suffering worse than winter change!

And yet could I transplant them there, To breathe again the innocent air Of youth, and once more reconcile Their outcast looks with nature's smile;

Could I but give them one clear day Of this delicious loving May, Release their souls from anguish dark, And stand them underneath the lark; -

I think that Nature would have power To graft again her blighted flower Upon the broken stem, renew Some portion of its early hue; -

The heavy flood of tears unlock, More precious than the Scriptured rock; At least instil a happier mood, And bring them back to womanhood.

Alas! how many lost ones claim This refuge from despair and shame! How many, longing for the light, Sink deeper in the abyss this night!

O, crying sin! O, blushing thought! Not only unto those that wrought The misery and deadly blight; But those that outcast them this night!

O, agony of grief! for who Less dainty than his race, will do Such battle for their human right, As shall awake this startled night?

Proclaim this evil human page Will ever blot the Golden Age That poets dream and saints invite, If it be unredeemed this night?

This night of deep solemnity, And verdurous serenity, While over every fleecy field The dews descend and odours yield.

This night of gleaming floods and falls, Of forest glooms and sylvan calls, Of starlight on the pebbly rills, And twilight on the circling hills.

This night! when from the paths of men Grey error steams as from a fen; As o'er this flaring City wreathes The black cloud-vapour that it breathes!

This night from which a morn will spring Blooming on its orient wing; A morn to roll with many more Its ghostly foam on the twilight shore.

Morn! when the fate of all mankind Hangs poised in doubt, and man is blind. His duties of the day will seem The fact of life, and mine the dream:

The destinies that bards have sung, Regeneration to the young, Reverberation of the truth, And virtuous culture unto youth!

Youth! in whose season let abound All flowers and fruits that strew the ground, Voluptuous joy where love consents, And health and pleasure pitch their tents:

All rapture and all pure delight; A garden all unknown to blight; But never the unnatural sight That throngs the shameless song this night!

SONG

Under boughs of breathing May, In the mild spring-time I lay, Lonely, for I had no love; And the sweet birds all sang for pity, Cuckoo, lark, and dove.

Tell me, cuckoo, then I cried, Dare I woo and wed a bride? I, like thee, have no home-nest; And the twin notes thus tuned their ditty, - 'Love can answer best.'

Nor, warm dove with tender coo, Have I thy soft voice to woo, Even were a damsel by; And the deep woodland crooned its ditty, - 'Love her first and try.'

Nor have I, wild lark, thy wing, That from bluest heaven can bring Bliss, whatever fate befall; And the sky-lyrist trilled this ditty, - 'Love will give thee all.'

So it chanced while June was young, Wooing well with fervent song, I had won a damsel coy; And the sweet birds that sang for pity, Jubileed for joy.

PASTORALS

I

How sweet on sunny afternoons, For those who journey light and well, To loiter up a hilly rise Which hides the prospect far beyond, And fancy all the landscape lying Beautiful and still;

Beneath a sky of summer blue, Whose rounded cloudlets, folded soft, Gaze on the scene which we await And picture from their peacefulness; So calmly to the earth inclining Float those loving shapes!

Like airy brides, each singling out A spot to love and bless with love, Their creamy bosoms glowing warm, Till distance weds them to the hills, And with its latest gleam the river Sinks in their embrace.

And silverly the river runs, And many a graceful wind he makes, By fields where feed the happy flocks, And hedge-rows hushing pleasant lanes, The charms of English home reflected In his shining eye:

Ancestral oak, broad-foliaged elm, Rich meadows sunned and starred with flowers, The cottage breathing tender smoke Against the brooding golden air, With glimpses of a stately mansion On a woodland sward;

And circling round, as with a ring, The distance spreading amber haze, Enclosing hills and pastures sweet; A depth of soft and mellow light Which fills the heart with sudden yearning Aimless and serene!

No disenchantment follows here, For nature's inspiration moves The dream which she herself fulfils; And he whose heart, like valley warmth, Steams up with joy at scenes like this Shall never be forlorn.

And O for any human soul The rapture of a wide survey - A valley sweeping to the West, With all its wealth of loveliness, Is more than recompense for days That taught us to endure.

II

Yon upland slope which hides the sun Ascending from his eastern deeps, And now against the hues of dawn One level line of tillage rears; The furrowed brow of toil and time; To many it is but a sweep of land!

To others 'tis an Autumn trust, But unto me a mystery; - An influence strange and swift as dreams; A whispering of old romance; A temple naked to the clouds; Or one of nature's bosoms fresh revealed,

Heaving with adoration! there The work of husbandry is done, And daily bread is daily earned; Nor seems there ought to indicate The springs which move in me such thoughts, But from my soul a spirit calls them up.

All day into the open sky, All night to the eternal stars, For ever both at morn and eve Men mellow distances draw near, And shadows lengthen in the dusk, Athwart the heavens it rolls its glimmering line!

When twilight from the dream-hued West Sighs hush! and all the land is still; When, from the lush empurpling East, The twilight of the crowing cock Peers on the drowsy village roofs, Athwart the heavens that glimmering line is seen.

And now beneath the rising sun, Whose shining chariot overpeers The irradiate ridge, while fetlock deep In the rich soil his coursers plunge - How grand in robes of light it looks! How glorious with rare suggestive grace!

The ploughman mounting up the height Becomes a glowing shape, as though 'Twere young Triptolemus, plough in hand, While Ceres in her amber scarf With gentle love directs him how To wed the willing earth and hope for fruits!

The furrows running up are fraught With meanings; there the goddess walks, While Proserpine is young, and there - 'Mid the late autumn sheaves, her voice Sobbing and choked with dumb despair - The nights will hear her wailing for her child!

Whatever dim tradition tells, Whatever history may reveal, Or fancy, from her starry brows, Of light or dreamful lustre shed, Could not at this sweet time increase The quiet consecration of the spot.

Blest with the sweat of labour, blest With the young sun's first vigorous beams, Village hope and harvest prayer, - The heart that throbs beneath it holds A bliss so perfect in itself Men's thoughts must borrow rather than bestow.

III

Now standing on this hedgeside path, Up which the evening winds are blowing Wildly from the lingering lines Of sunset o'er the hills; Unaided by one motive thought, My spirit with a strange impulsion Rises, like a fledgling, Whose wings are not mature, but still Supported by its strong desire Beats up its native air and leaves The tender mother's nest.

Great music under heaven is made, And in the track of rushing darkness Comes the solemn shape of night, And broods above the earth. A thing of Nature am I now, Abroad, without a sense or feeling Born not of her bosom; Content with all her truths and fates; Ev'n as yon strip of grass that bows Above the new-born violet bloom, And sings with wood and field.

IV

Lo, as a tree, whose wintry twigs Drink in the sun with fibrous joy, And down into its dampest roots Thrills quickened with the draught of life, I wake unto the dawn, and leave my griefs to drowse.

I rise and drink the fresh sweet air: Each draught a future bud of Spring; Each glance of blue a birth of green; I will not mimic yonder oak That dallies with dead leaves ev'n while the primrose peeps.

But full of these warm-whispering beams, Like Memnon in his mother's eye, - Aurora! when the statue stone Moaned soft to her pathetic touch, - My soul shall own its parent in the founts of day!

And ever in the recurring light, True to the primal joy of dawn, Forget its barren griefs; and aye Like aspens in the faintest breeze Turn all its silver sides and tremble into song.

V

Now from the meadow floods the wild duck clamours, Now the wood pigeon wings a rapid flight, Now the homeward rookery follows up its vanguard, And the valley mists are curling up the hills.

Three short songs gives the clear-voiced throstle, Sweetening the twilight ere he fills the nest; While the little bird upon the leafless branches Tweets to its mate a tiny loving note.

Deeper the stillness hangs on every motion; Calmer the silence follows every call; Now all is quiet save the roosting pheasant, The bell-wether's tinkle and the watch-dog's bark.

Softly shine the lights from the silent kindling homestead, Stars of the hearth to the shepherd in the fold; Springs of desire to the traveller on the roadway; Ever breathing incense to the ever-blessing sky!

VI

How barren would this valley be, Without the golden orb that gazes On it, broadening to hues Of rose, and spreading wings of amber; Blessing it before it falls asleep.

How barren would this valley be, Without the human lives now beating In it, or the throbbing hearts Far distant, who their flower of childhood Cherish here, and water it with tears!

How barren should I be, were I Without above that loving splendour, Shedding light and warmth! without Some kindred natures of my kind To joy in me, or yearn towards me now!

VII