Chapter 595

Gravely he seem'd, with gaze intense, Putting the question to common sense.

'--Why, there's the ale-house bench: The furze-flower shining round: And there's my waiting-wench, As lissome as a hound. With "hail Britannia!" ere I drink, I'll kiss her with an artful wink.'

Fair flash'd the foreign landscape while We breath'd again our native Isle.

'--The geese may swim hard-by; They gabble, and you talk: You're sure there's not a spy To mark your name with chalk. My heart's an oak, and it won't grow In flower-pots, foreigners must know.'

Pensive he stood: then shook his head Sadly; held out his fist, and said:

'--You've heard that Hungary's floor'd? They've got her on the ground. A traitor broke her sword: Two despots held her bound. I've seen her gasping her last hope: I've seen her sons strung up b' the rope.

'Nine gallant gentlemen In Arad they strung up! I work'd in peace till then:- That poison'd all my cup. A smell of corpses haunted me: My nostril sniff'd like life for sea.

'Take money for my hire From butchers?--not the man! I've got some natural fire, And don't flash in the pan; - A few ideas I reveal'd:- 'Twas well old England stood my shield!

'Said I, "The Lord of Hosts Have mercy on your land! I see those dangling ghosts, - And you may keep command, And hang, and shoot, and have your day: They hold your bill, and you must pay.

'"You've sent them where they're strong, You carrion Double-Head! I hear them sound a gong In Heaven above!"--I said. "My God, what feathers won't you moult For this!" says I: and then I bolt.

'The Bird's a beastly Bird, And what is more, a fool. I shake hands with the herd That flock beneath his rule. They're kindly; and their land is fine. I thought it rarer once than mine.

'And rare would be its lot, But that he baulks its powers: It's just an earthen pot For hearts of oak like ours. Think! Think!--four days from those frontiers, And I'm a-head full fifty years.

'It tingles to your scalps, To think of it, my boys! Confusion on their Alps, And all their baby toys! The mountains Britain boasts are men: And scale you them, my brethren!'

Cluck, went his tongue; his fingers, snap. Britons were proved all heights to cap.

And we who worshipp'd crags, Where purple splendours burn'd, Our idol saw in rags, And right about were turn'd. Horizons rich with trembling spires On violet twilights lost their fires.

And heights where morning wakes With one cheek over snow; - And iron-walled lakes Where sits the white moon low; - For us on youthful travel bent, The robing picturesque was rent.

Wherever Beauty show'd The wonders of her face, This man his Jackass rode, High despot of the place.

Fair dreams of our enchanted life Fled fast from his shrill island fife.

And yet we liked him well; We laugh'd with honest hearts:- He shock'd some inner spell, And rous'd discordant parts. We echoed what we half abjured: And hating, smilingly endured.

Moreover, could we be To our dear land disloyal? And were not also we Of History's blood-Royal? We glow'd to think how donkeys graze In England, thrilling at their brays.

For there a man may view An aspect more sublime Than Alps against the blue:- The morning eyes of Time! The very Ass participates The glory Freedom radiates!

CASSANDRA

I

Captive on a foreign shore, Far from Ilion's hoary wave, Agamemnon's bridal slave Speaks Futurity no more: Death is busy with her grave.

II

Thick as water, bursts remote Round her ears the alien din, While her little sullen chin Fills the hollows of her throat: Silent lie her slaughter'd kin.

III

Once to many a pealing shriek, Lo, from Ilion's topmost tower, Ilion's fierce prophetic flower Cried the coming of the Greek! Black in Hades sits the hour.

IV

Eyeing phantoms of the Past, Folded like a prophet's scroll, In the deep's long shoreward roll Here she sees the anchor cast: Backward moves her sunless soul.

V

Chieftains, brethren of her joy, Shades, the white light in their eyes Slanting to her lips, arise, Crowding quick the plains of Troy: Now they tell her not she lies.

VI

O the bliss upon the plains, Where the joining heroes clashed Shield and spear, and, unabashed, Challenged with hot chariot-reins Gods!--they glimmer ocean-washed.

VII

Alien voices round the ships, Thick as water, shouting Home. Argives, pale as midnight foam, Wax before her awful lips: White as stars that front the gloom.

VIII

Like a torch-flame that by day Up the daylight twists, and, pale, Catches air in leaps that fail, Crushed by the inveterate ray, Through her shines the Ten-Years' Tale.

IX

Once to many a pealing shriek, Lo, from Ilion's topmost tower, Ilion's fierce prophetic flower Cried the coming of the Greek! Black in Hades sits the hour.

X

Still upon her sunless soul Gleams the narrow hidden space Forward, where her fiery race Falters on its ashen goal: Still the Future strikes her face.

XI

See toward the conqueror's car Step the purple Queen whose hate Wraps red-armed her royal mate With his Asian tempest-star: Now Cassandra views her Fate.

XII

King of men! the blinded host Shout:- she lifts her brooding chin: Glad along the joyous din Smiles the grand majestic ghost: Clytemnestra leads him in.

XIII

Lo, their smoky limbs aloof, Shadowing heaven and the seas, Fates and Furies, tangling Threes, Tear and mix above the roof: Fates and fierce Eumenides.

XIV

Is the prophetess with rods Beaten, that she writhes in air? With the Gods who never spare, Wrestling with the unsparing Gods, Lone, her body struggles there.

XV

Like the snaky torch-flame white, Levelled as aloft it twists, She, her soaring arms, and wrists Drooping, struggles with the light, Helios, bright above all mists!

XVI

In his orb she sees the tower, Dusk against its flaming rims, Where of old her wretched limbs Twisted with the stolen power: Ilium all the lustre dims!

XVII

O the bliss upon the plains, Where the joining heroes clashed Shield and spear, and, unabashed, Challenged with hot chariot-reins Gods!--they glimmer ocean-washed.

XVIII

Thrice the Sun-god's name she calls; Shrieks the deed that shames the sky; Like a fountain leaping high, Falling as a fountain falls: Lo, the blazing wheels go by!

XIX

Captive on a foreign shore, Far from Ilion's hoary wave, Agamemnon's bridal slave Speaks Futurity no more: Death is busy with her grave.

THE YOUNG USURPER

On my darling's bosom Has dropped a living rosy bud, Fair as brilliant Hesper Against the brimming flood. She handles him, She dandles him, She fondles him and eyes him: And if upon a tear he wakes, With many a kiss she dries him: She covets every move he makes, And never enough can prize him. Ah, the young Usurper! I yield my golden throne: Such angel bands attend his hands To claim it for his own.

MARGARET'S BRIDAL EVE

I

The old grey mother she thrummed on her knee: There is a rose that's ready; And which of the handsome young men shall it be? There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

My daughter, come hither, come hither to me: There is a rose that's ready; Come, point me your finger on him that you see: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

O mother, my mother, it never can be: There is a rose that's ready; For I shall bring shame on the man marries me: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

Now let your tongue be deep as the sea: There is a rose that's ready; And the man'll jump for you, right briskly will he: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

Tall Margaret wept bitterly: There is a rose that's ready; And as her parent bade did she: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

O the handsome young man dropped down on his knee: There is a rose that's ready; Pale Margaret gave him her hand, woe's me! There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

II

O mother, my mother, this thing I must say: There is a rose in the garden; Ere he lies on the breast where that other lay: And the bird sings over the roses.

Now, folly, my daughter, for men are men: There is a rose in the garden; You marry them blindfold, I tell you again: And the bird sings over the roses.

O mother, but when he kisses me! There is a rose in the garden; My child, 'tis which shall sweetest be! And the bird sings over the roses.

O mother, but when I awake in the morn! There is a rose in the garden; My child, you are his, and the ring is worn: And the bird sings over the roses.

Tall Margaret sighed and loosened a tress: There is a rose in the garden; Poor comfort she had of her comeliness And the bird sings over the roses.

My mother will sink if this thing be said: There is a rose in the garden; That my first betrothed came thrice to my bed; And the bird sings over the roses.

He died on my shoulder the third cold night: There is a rose in the garden; I dragged his body all through the moonlight: And the bird sings over the roses.

But when I came by my father's door: There is a rose in the garden; I fell in a lump on the stiff dead floor: And the bird sings over the roses.

O neither to heaven, nor yet to hell: There is a rose in the garden; Could I follow the lover I loved so well! And the bird sings over the roses.

III

The bridesmaids slept in their chambers apart: There is a rose that's ready; Tall Margaret walked with her thumping heart: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

The frill of her nightgown below the left breast: There is a rose that's ready; Had fall'n like a cloud of the moonlighted West: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

But where the West-cloud breaks to a star: There is a rose that's ready; Pale Margaret's breast showed a winding scar: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

O few are the brides with such a sign! There is a rose that's ready; Though I went mad the fault was mine: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

I must speak to him under this roof to-night: There is a rose that's ready; I shall burn to death if I speak in the light: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

O my breast! I must strike you a bloodier wound: There is a rose that's ready; Than when I scored you red and swooned: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

I will stab my honour under his eye: There is a rose that's ready; Though I bleed to the death, I shall let out the lie: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

O happy my bridesmaids! white sleep is with you! There is a rose that's ready; Had he chosen among you he might sleep too! There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

O happy my bridesmaids! your breasts are clean: There is a rose that's ready; You carry no mark of what has been! There's a rose that's ready for clipping.

IV

An hour before the chilly beam: Red rose and white in the garden; The bridegroom started out of a dream: And the bird sings over the roses.

He went to the door, and there espied: Red rose and white in the garden; The figure of his silent bride: And the bird sings over the roses.

He went to the door, and let her in: Red rose and white in the garden; Whiter looked she than a child of sin: And the bird sings over the roses.

She looked so white, she looked so sweet: Red rose and white in the garden; She looked so pure he fell at her feet: And the bird sings over the roses.

He fell at her feet with love and awe: Red rose and white in the garden; A stainless body of light he saw: And the bird sings over the roses.

O Margaret, say you are not of the dead! Red rose and white in the garden; My bride! by the angels at night are you led? And the bird sings over the roses.

I am not led by the angels about: Red rose and white in the garden; But I have a devil within to let out: And the bird sings over the roses.

O Margaret! my bride and saint! Red rose and white in the garden; There is on you no earthly taint: And the bird sings over the roses.

I am no saint, and no bride can I be: Red rose and while in the garden; Until I have opened my bosom to thee: And the bird sings over the roses.

To catch at her heart she laid one hand: Red rose and white in the garden; She told the tale where she did stand: And the bird sings over the roses.

She stood before him pale and tall: Red rose and white in the garden; Her eyes between his, she told him all: And the bird sings over the roses.

She saw how her body grow freckled and foul: Red rose and white in the garden; She heard from the woods the hooting owl: And the bird sings over the roses.

With never a quiver her mouth did speak: Red rose and white in the garden; O when she had done she stood so meek! And the bird sings over the roses.

The bridegroom stamped and called her vile: Red rose and white in the garden; He did but waken a little smile: And the bird sings over the roses.

The bridegroom raged and called her foul: Red rose and white in the garden; She heard from the woods the hooting owl: And the bird sings over the roses.

He muttered a name full bitter and sore: Red rose and white in the garden; She fell in a lump on the still dead floor: And the bird sings over the roses.

O great was the wonder, and loud the wail: Red rose and white in the garden; When through the household flew the tale: And the bird sings over the roses.

The old grey mother she dressed the bier: Red rose and white in the garden; With a shivering chin and never a tear: And the bird sings over the roses.

O had you but done as I bade you, my child! Red rose and white in the garden; You would not have died and been reviled: And the bird sings over the roses.

The bridegroom he hung at midnight by the bier: Red rose and white in the garden; He eyed the white girl thro' a dazzling tear: And the bird sings over the roses.

O had you been false as the women who stray: Red rose and white in the garden; You would not be now with the Angels of Day! And the bird sings over the roses.

MARIAN

I

She can be as wise as we, And wiser when she wishes; She can knit with cunning wit, And dress the homely dishes. She can flourish staff or pen, And deal a wound that lingers; She can talk the talk of men, And touch with thrilling fingers.

II

Match her ye across the sea, Natures fond and fiery; Ye who zest the turtle's nest With the eagle's eyrie. Soft and loving is her soul, Swift and lofty soaring; Mixing with its dove-like dole Passionate adoring.

III

Such a she who'll match with me? In flying or pursuing, Subtle wiles are in her smiles To set the world a-wooing. She is steadfast as a star, And yet the maddest maiden: She can wage a gallant war, And give the peace of Eden.

BY MORNING TWILIGHT

Night, like a dying mother, Eyes her young offspring, Day. The birds are dreamily piping. And O, my love, my darling! The night is life ebb'd away: Away beyond our reach! A sea that has cast us pale on the beach; Weeds with the weeds and the pebbles That hear the lone tamarisk rooted in sand Sway With the song of the sea to the land.

UNKNOWN FAIR FACES

Though I am faithful to my loves lived through, And place them among Memory's great stars, Where burns a face like Hesper: one like Mars: Of visages I get a moment's view, Sweet eyes that in the heaven of me, too, Ascend, tho' virgin to my life they passed. Lo, these within my destiny seem glassed At times so bright, I wish that Hope were new. A gracious freckled lady, tall and grave, Went, in a shawl voluminous and white, Last sunset by; and going sow'd a glance. Earth is too poor to hold a second chance; I will not ask for more than Fortune gave: My heart she goes from--never from my sight!

SHEMSELNIHAR

O my lover! the night like a broad smooth wave Bears us onward, and morn, a black rock, shines wet. How I shuddered--I knew not that I was a slave, Till I looked on thy face:- then I writhed in the net. Then I felt like a thing caught by fire, that her star Glowed dark on the bosom of Shemselnihar.

And he came, whose I am: O my lover! he came: And his slave, still so envied of women, was I: And I turned as a hissing leaf spits from the flame, Yes, I shrivelled to dust from him, haggard and dry. O forgive her:- she was but as dead lilies are: The life of her heart fled from Shemselnihar.

Yet with thee like a full throbbing rose how I bloom! Like a rose by the fountain whose showering we hear, As we lie, O my lover! in this rich gloom, Smelling faint the cool breath of the lemon-groves near. As we lie gazing out on that glowing great star - Ah! dark on the bosom of Shemselnihar.

Yet with thee am I not as an arm of the vine, Firm to bind thee, to cherish thee, feed thee sweet? Swear an oath on my lip to let none disentwine The life that here fawns to give warmth to thy feet. I on thine, thus! no more shall that jewelled Head jar The music thou breathest on Shemselnihar.

Far away, far away, where the wandering scents Of all flowers are sweetest, white mountains among, There my kindred abide in their green and blue tents: Bear me to them, my lover! they lost me so young. Let us slip down the stream and leap steed till afar None question thy claim upon Shemselnihar.

O that long note the bulbul gave out--meaning love! O my lover, hark to him and think it my voice! The blue night like a great bell-flower from above Drooping low and gold-eyed: O, but hear him rejoice! Can it be? 'twas a flash! that accurst scimiter In thought even cuts thee from Shemselnihar.

Yes, I would that, less generous, he would oppress, He would chain me, upbraid me, burn deep brands for hate, Than with this mask of freedom and gorgeousness Bespangle my slavery, mock my strange fate. Would, would, would, O my lover, he knew--dared debar Thy coming, and earn curse of Shemselnihar!

A ROAR THROUGH THE TALL TWIN ELM-TREES

A roar thro' the tall twin elm-trees The mustering storm betrayed: The South-wind seized the willow That over the water swayed.

Then fell the steady deluge In which I strove to doze, Hearing all night at my window The knock of the winter rose.

The rainy rose of winter! An outcast it must pine. And from thy bosom outcast Am I, dear lady mine.

WHEN I WOULD IMAGE

When I would image her features, Comes up a shrouded head: I touch the outlines, shrinking; She seems of the wandering dead.

But when love asks for nothing, And lies on his bed of snow, The face slips under my eyelids, All in its living glow.

Like a dark cathedral city, Whose spires, and domes, and towers Quiver in violet lightnings, My soul basks on for hours.

THE SPIRIT OF SHAKESPEARE

Thy greatest knew thee, Mother Earth; unsoured He knew thy sons. He probed from hell to hell Of human passions, but of love deflowered His wisdom was not, for he knew thee well. Thence came the honeyed corner at his lips, The conquering smile wherein his spirit sails Calm as the God who the white sea-wave whips, Yet full of speech and intershifting tales, Close mirrors of us: thence had he the laugh We feel is thine: broad as ten thousand beeves At pasture! thence thy songs, that winnow chaff From grain, bid sick Philosophy's last leaves Whirl, if they have no response--they enforced To fatten Earth when from her soul divorced.

CONTINUED

How smiles he at a generation ranked In gloomy noddings over life! They pass. Not he to feed upon a breast unthanked, Or eye a beauteous face in a cracked glass. But he can spy that little twist of brain Which moved some weighty leader of the blind, Unwitting 'twas the goad of personal pain, To view in curst eclipse our Mother's mind, And show us of some rigid harridan The wretched bondmen till the end of time. O lived the Master now to paint us Man, That little twist of brain would ring a chime Of whence it came and what it caused, to start Thunders of laughter, clearing air and heart.

ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF EARTH IN AUTUMN

Fair Mother Earth lay on her back last night, To gaze her fill on Autumn's sunset skies, When at a waving of the fallen light Sprang realms of rosy fruitage o'er her eyes. A lustrous heavenly orchard hung the West, Wherein the blood of Eden bloomed again: Red were the myriad cherub-mouths that pressed, Among the clusters, rich with song, full fain, But dumb, because that overmastering spell Of rapture held them dumb: then, here and there, A golden harp lost strings; a crimson shell Burnt grey; and sheaves of lustre fell to air. The illimitable eagerness of hue Bronzed, and the beamy winged bloom that flew 'Mid those bunched fruits and thronging figures failed. A green-edged lake of saffron touched the blue, With isles of fireless purple lying through: And Fancy on that lake to seek lost treasures sailed.

Not long the silence followed: The voice that issues from thy breast, O glorious South-west, Along the gloom-horizon holloa'd; Warning the valleys with a mellow roar Through flapping wings; then sharp the woodland bore A shudder and a noise of hands: A thousand horns from some far vale In ambush sounding on the gale. Forth from the cloven sky came bands Of revel-gathering spirits; trooping down, Some rode the tree-tops; some on torn cloud-strips Burst screaming thro' the lighted town: And scudding seaward, some fell on big ships: Or mounting the sea-horses blew Bright foam-flakes on the black review Of heaving hulls and burying beaks.

Still on the farthest line, with outpuffed cheeks, 'Twixt dark and utter dark, the great wind drew From heaven that disenchanted harmony To join earth's laughter in the midnight blind: Booming a distant chorus to the shrieks Preluding him: then he, His mantle streaming thunderingly behind, Across the yellow realm of stiffened Day, Shot thro' the woodland alleys signals three; And with the pressure of a sea Plunged broad upon the vale that under lay.