Chapter 589

Summer glows warm on the meadows, and speedwell, and gold-cups, and daisies Darken 'mid deepening masses of sorrel, and shadowy grasses Show the ripe hue to the farmer, and summon the scythe and the hay- makers Down from the village; and now, even now, the air smells of the mowing, And the sharp song of the scythe whistles daily; from dawn, till the gloaming Wears its cool star, sweet and welcome to all flaming faces afield now; Heavily weighs the hot season, and drowses the darkening foliage, Drooping with languor; the white cloud floats, but sails not, for windless Heaven's blue tents it; no lark singing up in its fleecy white valleys; Up in its fairy white valleys, once feathered with minstrels, melodious With the invisible joy that wakes dawn o'er the green fields of England. Summer glows warm on the meadows; then come, let us roam thro' them gaily, Heedless of heat, and the hot-kissing sun, and the fear of dark freckles. Never one kiss will he give on a neck, or a lily-white forehead, Chin, hand, or bosom uncovered, all panting, to take the chance coolness, But full sure the fiery pressure leaves seal of espousal. Heed him not; come, tho' he kiss till the soft little upper-lip loses Half its pure whiteness; just speck'd where the curve of the rosy mouth reddens.

Come, let him kiss, let him kiss, and his kisses shall make thee the sweeter. Thou art no nun, veiled and vowed; doomed to nourish a withering pallor! City exotics beside thee would show like bleached linen at mid-day, Hung upon hedges of eglantine! Thou in the freedom of nature, Full of her beauty and wisdom, gentleness, joyance, and kindness! Come, and like bees will we gather the rich golden honey of noontide; Deep in the sweet summer meadows, border'd by hillside and river, Lined with long trenches half-hidden, where smell of white meadow- sweet, sweetest, Blissfully hovers--O sweetest! but pluck it not! even in the tenderest Grasp it will lose breath and wither; like many, not made for a posy.

See, the sun slopes down the meadows, where all the flowers are falling! Falling unhymned; for the nightingale scarce ever charms the long twilight: Mute with the cares of the nest; only known by a 'chuck, chuck,' and dovelike Call of content, but the finch and the linnet and blackcap pipe loudly. Round on the western hill-side warbles the rich-billed ouzel; And the shrill throstle is filling the tangled thickening copses; Singing o'er hyacinths hid, and most honey'd of flowers, white field-rose. Joy thus to revel all day in the grass of our own beloved country; Revel all day, till the lark mounts at eve with his sweet 'tirra- lirra': Trilling delightfully. See, on the river the slow-rippled surface Shining; the slow ripple broadens in circles; the bright surface smoothens; Now it is flat as the leaves of the yet unseen water-lily. There dart the lives of a day, ever-varying tactics fantastic. There, by the wet-mirrored osiers, the emerald wing of the kingfisher Flashes, the fish in his beak! there the dab-chick dived, and the motion Lazily undulates all thro' the tall standing army of rushes.

Joy thus to revel all day, till the twilight turns us homeward! Till all the lingering deep-blooming splendour of sunset is over, And the one star shines mildly in mellowing hues, like a spirit Sent to assure us that light never dieth, tho' day is now buried. Saying: to-morrow, to-morrow, few hours intervening, that interval Tuned by the woodlark in heaven, to-morrow my semblance, far eastward, Heralds the day 'tis my mission eternal to seal and to prophecy. Come then, and homeward; passing down the close path of the meadows. Home like the bees stored with sweetness; each with a lark in the bosom, Trilling for ever, and oh! will yon lark ever cease to sing up there?

TO A SKYLARK

O skylark! I see thee and call thee joy! Thy wings bear thee up to the breast of the dawn; I see thee no more, but thy song is still The tongue of the heavens to me!

Thus are the days when I was a boy; Sweet while I lived in them, dear now they're gone: I feel them no longer, but still, O still They tell of the heavens to me.

SONG--SPRING

When buds of palm do burst and spread Their downy feathers in the lane, And orchard blossoms, white and red, Breathe Spring delight for Autumn gain; And the skylark shakes his wings in the rain;

O then is the season to look for a bride! Choose her warily, woo her unseen; For the choicest maids are those that hide Like dewy violets under the green.

SONG--AUTUMN

When nuts behind the hazel-leaf Are brown as the squirrel that hunts them free, And the fields are rich with the sun-burnt sheaf, 'Mid the blue cornflower and the yellowing tree; And the farmer glows and beams in his glee;

O then is the season to wed thee a bride! Ere the garners are filled and the ale-cups foam; For a smiling hostess is the pride And flower of every Harvest Home.

SORROWS AND JOYS

Bury thy sorrows, and they shall rise As souls to the immortal skies, And there look down like mothers' eyes.

But let thy joys be fresh as flowers, That suck the honey of the showers, And bloom alike on huts and towers.

So shall thy days be sweet and bright; Solemn and sweet thy starry night, Conscious of love each change of light.

The stars will watch the flowers asleep, The flowers will feel the soft stars weep, And both will mix sensations deep.

With these below, with those above, Sits evermore the brooding dove, Uniting both in bonds of love.

For both by nature are akin; Sorrow, the ashen fruit of sin, And joy, the juice of life within.

Children of earth are these; and those The spirits of divine repose - Death radiant o'er all human woes.

O, think what then had been thy doom, If homeless and without a tomb They had been left to haunt the gloom!

O, think again what now they are - Motherly love, tho' dim and far, Imaged in every lustrous star.

For they, in their salvation, know No vestige of their former woe, While thro' them all the heavens do flow.

Thus art thou wedded to the skies, And watched by ever-loving eyes, And warned by yearning sympathies.

SONG

The flower unfolds its dawning cup, And the young sun drinks the star-dews up, At eve it droops with the bliss of day, And dreams in the midnight far away.

So am I in thy sole, sweet glance Pressed with a weight of utterance; Lovingly all my leaves unfold, And gleam to the beams of thirsty gold.

At eve I droop, for then the swell Of feeling falters forth farewell; - At midnight I am dreaming deep, Of what has been, in blissful sleep.

When--ah! when will love's own fight Wed me alike thro' day and night, When will the stars with their linking charms Wake us in each other's arms?

SONG

Thou to me art such a spring As the Arab seeks at eve, Thirsty from the shining sands; There to bathe his face and hands, While the sun is taking leave, And dewy sleep is a delicious thing.

Thou to me art such a dream As he dreams upon the grass, While the bubbling coolness near Makes sweet music in his ear; And the stars that slowly pass In solitary grandeur o'er him gleam.

Thou to me art such a dawn As the dawn whose ruddy kiss Wakes him to his darling steed; And again the desert speed, And again the desert bliss, Lightens thro' his veins, and he is gone!

ANTIGONE

The buried voice bespake Antigone.

'O sister! couldst thou know, as thou wilt know, The bliss above, the reverence below, Enkindled by thy sacrifice for me; Thou wouldst at once with holy ecstasy Give thy warm limbs into the yearning earth. Sleep, Sister! for Elysium's dawning birth, - And faith will fill thee with what is to be! Sleep, for the Gods are watching over thee! Thy dream will steer thee to perform their will, As silently their influence they instil. O Sister! in the sweetness of thy prime, Thy hand has plucked the bitter flower of death; But this will dower thee with Elysian breath, That fade into a never-fading clime. Dear to the Gods are those that do like thee A solemn duty! for the tyranny Of kings is feeble to the soul that dares Defy them to fulfil its sacred cares: And weak against a mighty will are men. O, Torch between two brothers! in whose gleam Our slaughtered House doth shine as one again, Tho' severed by the sword; now may thy dream Kindle desire in thee for us, and thou, Forgetting not thy lover and his vow, Leaving no human memory forgot, Shalt cross, not unattended, the dark stream Which runs by thee in sleep and ripples not. The large stars glitter thro' the anxious night, And the deep sky broods low to look at thee: The air is hush'd and dark o'er land and sea, And all is waiting for the morrow light: So do thy kindred spirits wait for thee. O Sister! soft as on the downward rill, Will those first daybeams from the distant hill Fall on the smoothness of thy placid brow, Like this calm sweetness breathing thro' me now: And when the fated sounds shall wake thine eyes, Wilt thou, confiding in the supreme will, In all thy maiden steadfastness arise, Firm to obey and earnest to fulfil; Remembering the night thou didst not sleep, And this same brooding sky beheld thee creep, Defiant of unnatural decree, To where I lay upon the outcast land; Before the iron gates upon the plain; A wretched, graveless ghost, whose wailing chill Came to thy darkened door imploring thee; Yearning for burial like my brother slain; - And all was dared for love and piety! This thought will nerve again thy virgin hand To serve its purpose and its destiny.'

She woke, they led her forth, and all was still.

Swathed round in mist and crown'd with cloud, O Mountain! hid from peak to base - Caught up into the heavens and clasped In white ethereal arms that make Thy mystery of size sublime! What eye or thought can measure now Thy grand dilating loftiness! What giant crest dispute with thee Supremacy of air and sky! What fabled height with thee compare! Not those vine-terraced hills that seethe The lava in their fiery cusps; Nor that high-climbing robe of snow, Whose summits touch the morning star, And breathe the thinnest air of life; Nor crocus-couching Ida, warm With Juno's latest nuptial lure; Nor Tenedos whose dreamy eye Still looks upon beleaguered Troy; Nor yet Olympus crown'd with gods Can boast a majesty like thine, O Mountain! hid from peak to base, And image of the awful power With which the secret of all things, That stoops from heaven to garment earth, Can speak to any human soul, When once the earthly limits lose Their pointed heights and sharpened lines, And measureless immensity Is palpable to sense and sight.

SONG

No, no, the falling blossom is no sign Of loveliness destroy'd and sorrow mute; The blossom sheds its loveliness divine; - Its mission is to prophecy the fruit.

Nor is the day of love for ever dead, When young enchantment and romance are gone; The veil is drawn, but all the future dread Is lightened by the finger of the dawn.

Love moves with life along a darker way, They cast a shadow and they call it death: But rich is the fulfilment of their day; The purer passion and the firmer faith.

THE TWO BLACKBIRDS

A blackbird in a wicker cage, That hung and swung 'mid fruits and flowers, Had learnt the song-charm, to assuage The drearness of its wingless hours.

And ever when the song was heard, From trees that shade the grassy plot Warbled another glossy bird, Whose mate not long ago was shot.

Strange anguish in that creature's breast, Unwept like human grief, unsaid, Has quickened in its lonely nest A living impulse from the dead.

Not to console its own wild smart, - But with a kindling instinct strong, The novel feeling of its heart Beats for the captive bird of song.

And when those mellow notes are still, It hops from off its choral perch, O'er path and sward, with busy bill, All grateful gifts to peck and search.

Store of ouzel dainties choice To those white swinging bars it brings; And with a low consoling voice It talks between its fluttering wings.

Deeply in their bitter grief Those sufferers reciprocate, The one sings for its woodland life, The other for its murdered mate.

But deeper doth the secret prove, Uniting those sad creatures so; Humanity's great link of love, The common sympathy of woe.

Well divined from day to day Is the swift speech between them twain; For when the bird is scared away, The captive bursts to song again.

Yet daily with its flattering voice, Talking amid its fluttering wings, Store of ouzel dainties choice With busy bill the poor bird brings.

And shall I say, till weak with age Down from its drowsy branch it drops, It will not leave that captive cage, Nor cease those busy searching hops?

Ah, no! the moral will not strain; Another sense will make it range, Another mate will soothe its pain, Another season work a change.

But thro' the live-long summer, tried, A pure devotion we may see; The ebb and flow of Nature's tide; A self-forgetful sympathy.

JULY

I

Blue July, bright July, Month of storms and gorgeous blue; Violet lightnings o'er thy sky, Heavy falls of drenching dew; Summer crown! o'er glen and glade Shrinking hyacinths in their shade; I welcome thee with all thy pride, I love thee like an Eastern bride. Though all the singing days are done As in those climes that clasp the sun; Though the cuckoo in his throat Leaves to the dove his last twin note; Come to me with thy lustrous eye, Golden-dawning oriently, Come with all thy shining blooms, Thy rich red rose and rolling glooms. Though the cuckoo doth but sing 'cuk, cuk,' And the dove alone doth coo; Though the cushat spins her coo-r-roo, r-r-roo - To the cuckoo's halting 'cuk.'

II

Sweet July, warm July! Month when mosses near the stream, Soft green mosses thick and shy, Are a rapture and a dream. Summer Queen! whose foot the fern Fades beneath while chestnuts burn; I welcome thee with thy fierce love, Gloom below and gleam above. Though all the forest trees hang dumb, With dense leafiness o'ercome; Though the nightingale and thrush, Pipe not from the bough or bush; Come to me with thy lustrous eye, Azure-melting westerly, The raptures of thy face unfold, And welcome in thy robes of gold! Tho' the nightingale broods--'sweet-chuck-sweet' - And the ouzel flutes so chill, Tho' the throstle gives but one shrilly trill To the nightingale's 'sweet-sweet.'

SONG

I would I were the drop of rain That falls into the dancing rill, For I should seek the river then, And roll below the wooded hill, Until I reached the sea.

And O, to be the river swift That wrestles with the wilful tide, And fling the briny weeds aside That o'er the foamy billows drift, Until I came to thee!

I would that after weary strife, And storm beneath the piping wind, The current of my true fresh life Might come unmingled, unimbrined, To where thou floatest free.

Might find thee in some amber clime, Where sunlight dazzles on the sail, And dreaming of our plighted vale Might seal the dream, and bless the time, With maiden kisses three.

SONG

Come to me in any shape! As a victor crown'd with vine, In thy curls the clustering grape, - Or a vanquished slave: 'Tis thy coming that I crave, And thy folding serpent twine, Close and dumb; Ne'er from that would I escape; Come to me in any shape! Only come!

Only come, and in my breast Hide thy shame or show thy pride; In my bosom be caressed, Never more to part; Come into my yearning heart; I, the serpent, golden-eyed, Twine round thee; Twine thee with no venomed test; Absence makes the venomed nest; Come to me!

Come to me, my lover, come! Violets on the tender stem Die and wither in their bloom, Under dewy grass; Come, my lover, or, alas! I shall die, shall die like them, Frail and lone; Come to me, my lover, come! Let thy bosom be my tomb: Come, my own!

THE SHIPWRECK OF IDOMENEUS

Swept from his fleet upon that fatal night When great Poseidon's sudden-veering wrath Scattered the happy homeward-floating Greeks Like foam-flakes off the waves, the King of Crete Held lofty commune with the dark Sea-god. His brows were crowned with victory, his cheeks Were flushed with triumph, but the mighty joy Of Troy's destruction and his own great deeds Passed, for the thoughts of home were dearer now, And sweet the memory of wife and child, And weary now the ten long, foreign years, And terrible the doubt of short delay - More terrible, O Gods! he cried, but stopped; Then raised his voice upon the storm and prayed. O thou, if injured, injured not by me, Poseidon! whom sea-deities obey And mortals worship, hear me! for indeed It was our oath to aid the cause of Greece, Not unespoused by Gods, and most of all By thee, if gentle currents, havens calm, Fair winds and prosperous voyage, and the Shape Impersonate in many a perilous hour, Both in the stately councils of the Kings, And when the husky battle murmured thick, May testify of services performed! But now the seas are haggard with thy wrath, Thy breath is tempest! never at the shores Of hostile Ilium did thy stormful brows Betray such fierce magnificence! not even On that wild day when, mad with torch and glare, The frantic crowds with eyes like starving wolves Burst from their ports impregnable, a stream Of headlong fury toward the hissing deep; Where then full-armed I stood in guard, compact Beside thee, and alone, with brand and spear, We held at bay the swarming brood, and poured Blood of choice warriors on the foot-ploughed sands! Thou, meantime, dark with conflict, as a cloud That thickens in the bosom of the West Over quenched sunset, circled round with flame, Huge as a billow running from the winds Long distances, till with black shipwreck swoln, It flings its angry mane about the sky. And like that billow heaving ere it burst; And like that cloud urged by impulsive storm With charge of thunder, lightning, and the drench Of torrents, thou in all thy majesty Of mightiness didst fall upon the war! Remember that great moment! Nor forget The aid I gave thee; how my ready spear Flew swiftly seconding thy mortal stroke, Where'er the press was hottest; never slacked My arm its duty, nor mine eye its aim, Though terribly they compassed us, and stood Thick as an Autumn forest, whose brown hair, Lustrous with sunlight, by the still increase Of heat to glowing heat conceives like zeal Of radiance, till at the pitch of noon 'Tis seized with conflagration and distends Horridly over leagues of doom'd domain; Mingling the screams of birds, the cries of brutes, The wail of creatures in the covert pent, Howls, yells, and shrieks of agony, the hiss Of seething sap, and crash of falling boughs Together in its dull voracious roar. So closely and so fearfully they throng'd, Savage with phantasies of victory, A sea of dusky shapes; for day had passed And night fell on their darkened faces, red With fight and torchflare; shrill the resonant air With eager shouts, and hoarse with angry groans; While over all the dense and sullen boom, The din and murmur of the myriads, Rolled with its awful intervals, as though The battle breathed, or as against the shore Waves gather back to heave themselves anew. That night sleep dropped not from the dreary skies, Nor could the prowess of our chiefs oppose That sea of raging men. But what were they? Or what is man opposed to thee? Its hopes Are wrecks, himself the drowning, drifting weed That wanders on thy waters; such as I Who see the scattered remnants of my fleet, Remembering the day when first we sailed, Each glad ship shining like the morning star With promise for the world. Oh! such as I Thus darkly drifting on the drowning waves. O God of waters! 'tis a dreadful thing To suffer for an evil unrevealed; Dreadful it is to hear the perishing cry Of those we love; the silence that succeeds How dreadful! Still my trust is fixed on thee For those that still remain and for myself. And if I hear thy swift foam-snorting steeds Drawing thy dusky chariot, as in The pauses of the wind I seem to hear, Deaf thou art not to my entreating prayer! Haste then to give us help, for closely now Crete whispers in my ears, and all my blood Runs keen and warm for home, and I have yearning, Such yearning as I never felt before, To see again my wife, my little son, My Queen, my pretty nursling of five years, The darling of my hopes, our dearest pledge Of marriage, and our brightest prize of love, Whose parting cry rings clearest in my heart. O lay this horror, much-offended God! And making all as fair and firm as when We trusted to thy mighty depths of old, - I vow to sacrifice the first whom Zeus Shall prompt to hail us from the white seashore And welcome our return to royal Crete, An offering, Poseidon, unto thee!

Amid the din of elemental strife, No voice may pierce but Deity supreme: And Deity supreme alone can hear, Above the hurricane's discordant shrieks, The cry of agonized humanity.