Part 2

Now wing'd Apollo, fing'ring golden strings, Hath wandered far in his dear ponderings, And fashioned such a music, wild and free, As wakes to love the cold anemone, And saddened Hyacinth forgets to moan, Beside a sweetness sadder than his own--A sweeter strain than Orpheus honeyed breath, Had sung to charm the stygian tides of death. And Iris on a heavenly message sent, Hath paused to hear this new forlorn lament. This tender goddess of all daintiness, Stands tiptoe holding up her showery dress, 'Tween dainty fingers, till the spangled folds Of mingled hues, in wondrous bow she holds, And leans to learn what wondrous thing of beauty, Must prompt so sweet a lay. Forgotten duty, That bade her speed to regions somnolent, For balmy dreams, to nurse a languishment, That pales the boyish cheek of dimpled Cupid, She speeds where all of beauty's minions groupéd, Do feast their eyes upon the source of song. And after her still comes a charmed throng, From music's toils the slaves of loveliness. Ah! when this radiant scene her eye doth bless What sighs are born of deep enraptured joy! And Iris now recalls the languid boy; For this is Psyche! This the dainty nymph, Whose love hath paled his cheek to dewy lymph! And all aflame to do a happy thing, She bounds away upon her swiftest wing, To Somnus' gloomy cavern. Scarce a thought, Might mark the time in which her pinions brought, Her to the drowsy rug of poppies spread, Where drowsy Somnus nods his hoary head. His myriad minions, like the forest leaves, When some wild gust their autumn rest upheaves, Rush to her overwhelming. Lethe fumes, Of sweet seduction, oozing from the glooms, That shield the murky river, drag to aching Her wearied eyes, and e'en her sense forsaking, She fain would rest upon the poppied rug, Like some pale Orient deep within a drug. But _beauty_ is the dream of godly sleep, And scare her eyes have fluttered, when a peep Of golden fragments tantalize their sense To waking; thus to try, with soul intense, To reconstruct some evanescent gleam Of something they remember. Ah! what dream So fair as Psyche sleeping in a fairy ring? So fair as languid love's sad wandering To grief or joy along a feverish beam? She wakes the drowsy god, demands a dream: And quits the sunless cave with winged Morpheus. And now again the amorous sire of Orpheus, They meet, and now the sad immortal strain, Shall lure them on to Psyche's dell again. What though the Thracian queen may bide but ill, Miscarrying chance with her imperial will?-- Sweet Iris hath a gentler thought. She brings, The dream to see those luminous sleeping wings, All pied and crested like a tiger moth, When from a soothing beam his heart is loth, To part, and basks for very idleness; Those tiny feet where they so lightly press As not to weight a daisy to the earth; Turned dimple breasts, such beauty of one birth As Nature yields no more; one small hand prest Against them coldly white, and one carest By raptured blooms, outstretched upon the grasses; And oh! her head! what glory there surpasses, Of golden ringlets curling and uncurling As gentle Zephyr with a silent purling, Plays free among them,--scarcely parted lips, So flower like, a wild bee drops and sips, So sweet he flies away full honey laden, Unconscious of his lightness. Such a maiden That Morpheus eld historian of th' ideal Must write another canto. Softly steal, The fine emotions o'er his countenance, As though a prism's unveiléd hues should dance, Upon a shy chamelion. Seeing this, The happy Iris mounts upon his bliss, With soothing words; "Thou seest the butterfly, "Whose flooding beam hath drown'd dear Cupid's eye. "The queen demands thou bring him fairest pleasure, "Of all the joys thou holdest in thy measure. "Sweet Psyche's story, whispered by the wind, "In every dewy flower cup thou'lt find, "As deeply mirrored as the starry skies. "Fly to the fretting boy with dear surprise "Of all thy cunning. Kiss his fevered lips, "As Psyche then, when doubting falls and slips, "Still left unmarred their blissful stream of life. "Sweet whisper tales of life and love arife, "To guide his swooning fancy from its pain, "To revel in the life of love again." The Dream hath kindled to a gorgeous hue, Out speaking words, and in a drop of dew Hath read sweet Psyche's tearful story. And Lo! the boy beholds a growing glory Of something rich and old; and feels the sense Of olden kisses planted quick, intense, And warm caresses softly lingering To lose no dear sensation. Blushes bring, In quick succession, while his chin atilt, 'Tween tender fingers, meets a raptured lilt, Of love for love, as lovers only know. And he hath seen the bitter path of woe, Each ragged rock her feet have limp'd upon; Each hopeless deep, and heard each bitter moan. And he hath seen her loving spirit burn, To ope for him the glory of the urn; Such glory as her joyful eyes have drunken, Till drugg'd with their own beauty, they have sunken Unto a dreamless swoon, where ringed thime Hath framed an art, to rare to draw in rhime. Then hath he risen from his joyless bed, Thrown off his garb of woe, and swiftly sped, Adown the olden path. And like a thought His heart hath brought him to this valley fraught With his rich treasure, all his soul asinging To name the bubbling hope that he is bringing. And softly as a warming shadow falls On flowery paths along the sunny halls, His gentle words caress her sleeping ear, With all the magic love that she hath long'd to hear. A blossom opening to the morning sun, With white cold cheeks the dew hath dreamed upon, Hath never opened sweeter eyes than hers. Such sudden pulsing breast! such light that stirs Such eyes unmeasured deep! as closely folded In strong white arms her being is remolded, And Lo! he leads her scarce a thought beyond, And there where she hath written in the sand, As though a wizzard waves a magic wand, The palace rises, new and passing grand.

A TOAST

To R. G. B.

My Soul! 'Tis a beaker of wine, And the bubbles that flash to the brim, Are the nameless, wild songs of mine, And the ruby is sparkling with them.

Ah! The beaker is sparkling and brimming!-- We die, but there's life in the bowl, While the bubbles are rising and swimming-- Camerado, I pledge thee my soul!

WHISPER TO MY LOVE

Ah Music! Whisper to my love, Some golden fancy of thy clime-- Some glorious sound, To breath around, A sweetness, sweeter than my rhime, Of sweet breath thime In orange grove, When she may rove, As wild and free, As the Dryads be, That circle there, around, above her, To tell her that I love her.

Ah Beauty! Whisper to my love, Some glorious fervor of thy being, On golden sands Of Orient strands; By limpid lakes where she is fleeing, And there is seeing The classic grace Of her proud race, As wild and free, As the Dryads be, That circle there, around, above her, To tell her that I love her.

Ah Pleasure! Whisper to my love, Some happiness as sweet as thine, When wild bee sips The honey drips, In early May. And lowing kine, In dreamy line, Have led her feet To the pastures sweet, As wild and free, As the Dryads be, That circle there, around, above her, To tell her that I love her.

Sweet trine! Oh! whisper to my love, Such wildest pleasures thou hast known, Of lake or strand, Or flow'ry land, In happy regions all thine own; Of dreamy zone, Where all day long, Hast sung her song, As wild and free, As the Dryads be, That circle there around, above her, To tell her that I love her.

ODE TO A RURAL SCENE

Oh! Soul of balsam calm, sweet rural scene! Thy spirit hand hath led me back again, By pebbly paths, to mossy couches green, And where the glowworm and the moth have lain, To lie and dream! Or on some warm and soothing rock, Supine, to watch the white clouds flee and flock, On everchanging wings, Of childhood's sweet imaginings. Or seeking out some shadowy stream, Where playful fishes flash and gleam, and vanish, A wild thing too, dull leaden footed care to banish, How I would seem!

Along the smoky autumn afternoon, Where fall the brown leaves, wandring aimlessly, What song of forest pine, what wild bird's tune, Hath waked me not to life, but still to be A spirit wild! To cut me from the hickory bough, A whistle piping music sweet enow, And on the swinging vine, As free as Bacchus, munch the wine, From purple festoons undefiled; Or with the wild winds sport from hill to hill, As happy as the dewy balm they drink and spill,-- Their nameless child.

Or where the rain falls, patt'ring in the dust, Of winding lanes, to seek no shelt'ring place, But bare the soul to greet the coolly gust, And laugh to feel the cold rain in the face. What joys are mine, Of haunted nook, and hidden dingle, Where life and dimpling mirth, may meet and mingle, And clear melodious plot, To pipe sweet ditties of their lot, Till the sad soul that did repine, Shall wake to consciousness as sweet and wild, As some lone promise-mother's dreaming of her child, And as divine!

Along these paths what amorous gods have pass'd! What wood nymphs vanished down these shadowy lanes! What happy olden memories here may last Of shepherd lassies and great amorous swains, In jocund dance; Or fairy Mab, the merry queen, Hath led her pageantry upon the green, In delicate rigadoon, Along the midnight's charmed noon! But not of these my soul's entrance, If now the mock bird, warbling wildwood notes, In rich liquidity of myriad tuneful throats, Tells his romance.

Or if the red bird preen his richest plume Upon the dogwood bough; or crested jay, Hid in some leafy oak's sequestered gloom, Shall fret and chatter all the live long day. Perchance to hear Some music, fainter than a dream, Range on its pinions till the soul must deem That it is there and know It hath been ever singing so. And thus to grow as fine and clear-- Like wild-wood sound to come, to dream, to die,-- And only pray nought else to charm the spirit's eye, The spirit's ear.

ODE TO A BEE

Thou busy bee! Thou happy murm'ring bee! How would I follow on thy viewless course, To clover dell, or lusher linden tree, And lose within thy honey's charmed source All that I am, of hope or fondest dream-- To be as thou a honeyed spirit wild, No more, no more from golden worth astray For what may fairer seem, But drinking still, with spirit undefiled, The heavy secrets of the summer day.

No fruitless season mocks thee with its frown, No dross within thy waxen treasure dome, No dark remorse may ever weigh thee down, But laughing Nature bids thee lightly roam From scene to scene wherever joy may be. Not aimless wand'ring on from gloom to gloom, But with a purpose greater than thy days-- Yet art thou wholly free To go, to come, to sleep in folded bloom: No custom bids thee name thy wondrous ways.

Within thy far and olden Orient vales, Sweet houris nursed and watched thee long ago. And thou hast heard the soft and lowly couched tales, Of lovers luting all the heart's sweet woe Without the harem's amorous oriels; And guarded sighs of maidens veiled and pining; And demon lovers wailing sad nights long Within the wildest dells; Or, Sprite of Roses! couched in velvet lining, Sad thorn struck nightingales' low dying song.

Old caravans have plundered all thy treasure, To feed the dark-eyed beauty of the Nile-- Thou hast not pined, nor lost thy queenly pleasure, But out of ruins wrought new domes the while. But lo! they robbed thy rosy land of thee; Ah then! how blushed the spirit of the west! That welcomed thee his wild-wood spirit bride, To flee, to flee, to flee! What spread of burning wings! What golden quest For panting bliss in flow'ry fields untried!

Sweet critic of the fairest and the sweetest, Thou hast not paused to mar the honey less-- And who knows where thy winged soul is fleetest? What holidays thou hast of happiness To drink the viewless honey of the air? I saw thee on the golden rod at noon, At evening by the frail anemone-- Which beauty charmed thee there? Didst ease thy heart, or golden weighted shoon, Within thy far and murm'rous hearted tree?

Away! away! farewell thou winged sprite! From dale to dale, from hill to farthest hill. The radiant blue hath melted round thy flight, But, like an Ariel dream, I see thee still, Where thou hast vanished, yet not wholly gone. And I must sing thee of a treasure dome Of drossless gold, which thou hast filled unwitting. Then too to wander on, Like thee as fain to pause, as fain to roam, Forever pausing and forever flitting.

TO DEATH

Ah Death! Thou art a strange and delicate thing, Pale hooded sister of sweet sleep! That like a patient holy nun, Upon a battle steep, Hath watched from sun to sun Each laboring breath, That welcomes thee, sweet Death. Whilst thou with cooling balm Do quiet lips, where lonely anguish cries, And draw cool shades for wearied eyes, And layeth speechless calm Upon each fevered brow, With strokings of thy coolly palm. And thou, and only thou Hath Alms More sweet than psalms, To famished souls On barren goals. What draughts of long forgetfulness Hath held to moaning thirst! To drink, to drink, and drinking, wildly bless, That thou, the last, shall be the first. What depths of great eternal night, Hast held to failing eyes! Till, pregnant with the awful sight, A spirit in them lies That is not life. I see thee calming strife, And age old bitterness. The young man's mockery of the old Hath seen thy face and trembles all acold. I see thee in the bride's deep fathomless eyes, That flash with sudden consciousness, While all her pulses rise To greet sweet motherhood. I see thee in the lonely wood, With hardy woodsmen clearing future cities, And hardy daughters chanting ditties That are the songs of queens to be. I see thee in the golden halls of gaity Where trips the lure of beauty ankle deep, And where the faded kings and queens in kindly shadows creep. I see thee in the busy marts of blood and brain, And in the crowded thoroughfares, Of ceaseless noise, and sightless glares, That lead to woods again. I see thee by the nervous ocean, That trembles still, with wild emotion, And brings sad pennance for its night of wrath. I see thee on the lonely mountain path, That leadeth ever up and down. I see thee in the golden brown That burns gay summer's bonny cheeks. I see thee in the light that seeks A soberer gown along the afternoon. I see thee by the harvest's moon, And hear thee in the reaper's distant song. And whither this may rise and that be planting soon, I see thine hooded shadow glide along. I see thee with the poet on the hills Of soul's expression. I see thee with the raptured alchemist's in session, While each his magic mirror fills With drossless gold of music, art, and poesy, Whence o'er the world such beauty spills, That sorrow cannot be. I hear thee in the lovers' lilt, Of careless brightness. I see thee in the lightness, Of amorous lips atilt.

I hear thee in the dreamy serenade, That wakes the charméd ear of night, And loosens in some farthest glade, A mocking bird to lyric flight. I see thee where the silence falls On haunted sleep men lie within,-- And ah! thy dreamless solace calls, Far, faint and thin. And ever calls, Till perfect silence falls. I see, thee, hear thee, feel thee every where, O! passing breath! And life is glorified for thou art there, O! Death!

A DIRGE

I saw a lassie on the green, Ah me! Ah me! No sweeter sight since have I seen, Nor ever more may see.

At morning fair, at evening pale, And overcast. Oh, stay thou lassie, sad and frail, Why seek the night so fast?

I took her hand, 'twas limp and cold, She had no smile, And in her eyes gleamed something old That flickered out the while.

And then she told such piteous tale, And heaved a sigh:-- "I dreamed that beauty could not fail, "Nor simple pleasure die.

"I held him long, I held him fast-- "But he has gone. "Oh stay me not--this way he past, "And I must hasten on."

I saw a wannish haggard in the night,-- Alone was she. I heard her laugh, her eyes were bright, Ah me! ah woe is me!

TIME AND RHIME

Ah Ha! A lack-wit is the Time-- A foolish piece and niddy-noddy, To teach her gentle daughter, Rhime, To flirt and dance with everybody.

Her cheek was fresh, and passing fair When very few did come to court her, And king or swain must worship there, That dared, or fancied to transport her.

And often there a sceptered king, And often there a wit or jester, Have fondly kneel'd her praise to sing, And learned how sore it is to pester.

But now alas! 'Tis come to pass, She loves the addlest headed dandy. A bon-bon lyric suits the lass, Her Epic is a piece of candy.

THE POET AND THE WORLD

A poet came in a golden noon, His eyes were bright and his soul in tune, And he sang a song of a nameless bird. And never a song of songs was sung, As sweet and as rich as the lay that sprung, From the forest-wild muse in the lyrical verd.

An old man dozing and dying alone, Hath startled enrapt at the wondrous tone, And thinks on his own youth's minstrelsy. And his fingers tremble and itch again And his tongue is lashed in its bed of pain, To know at last such music may be.

A youth starts up, with his soul on fire, And shatters his harp for something higher, And sings of a glory he has not known, Till his mad soul sinks on the raging sea, As sad and as weary as spent wings be, In the guideless paths where his hopes have flown.

And a maiden adream in her virgin bower, Of her love's bright star and its rising hour, Hath heard the song, and her being is folden To the starry breast of a winged god, In the golden paths of a garden untrod, Which her soul in the lyric depths beholden.

But the world hath roused on its listless bed And calls to the ass for his bray instead, And lo! he hath named the song and the bird! And the young man lives, and the old man dies, And the god hath flown from the maiden's eyes, And the singer is gone, and the song is a word.

THE GUERDON

Sculptors have carved for us stories in stone,-- Spirits of gods from the chrysalis freeing; Toiled for us, starved for us, dying unknown, Still have they sought for the infinite being, Calling it Beauty,--upbuilding its throne. And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb: "Fortune is fickle, the saddest and gladdest "Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest-- "Naught hast thou wraught so enduring as doom."

Painters have drawn for us marvellous lines, Hues of the rainbow, and sunset, and morning-- Pigments an innermost glory divines, Laurelled, or stultified canvas adorning; Toiled for us, drunk for us bitterest wines, And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb: "Fortune is fickle--the saddest and gladdest "Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest "Naught hast thou drawn so enduring as doom."

Poets have sung for us sweetest of song, Aye, they have sung for us, limn'd for us, carved for us. Laurell'd our fortune, and lightened our wrong-- Still have they dreamed for us, toiled for us, starved for us-- We are their passion's most fanciful throng-- And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb: "Fortune is fickle--the saddest, and gladdest, "Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest, "Naught hast thou sung so enduring as doom."

A SONG

What is so rare as a pearly cloud, With a burning sun behind it? And this is the jewel I wear on my heart, With a dream to bind it-- This is the treasure you sought from the start, Forgetting to find it.

What is so sweet as the song of a bird, That wakens the fancy that hears it? And this is the music I hear in my heart Whose heaven enspheres it-- This is the heaven you sought from the start Forgetting to pierce it.

What is so glad as the heart of a child, That gambols as careless as Maytime? And this is the pleasure I hold to my heart, Acalling it daytime-- This is the pleasure you sought from the start, Forgetting the playtime.

TO X

Boast not, poor man, that thou hast measured time, And named it feeble seven thousand years, Lest all the lore and wit of all thy seers Must brand thee fool, and name thy folly _crime_. I say that I have seen an eon's rime Upon thy father's head, and bitter tears, Quintillions old. And countless fears, Remembered from an old world's mapless clime. Nor call thy folly old,--'twas surely born When thou didst cease to think. Thou hast a child, Whose beauty brands thee for a thing forsworn. Leave thou its tender reason undefiled! For shame to chain the base of all thy glory, Upon an olden tale, a useless allegory!

ON A FESTAL NIGHT

Above the city hangs a limpid glare, From hollow laughter's laden festal board: Thou seest the lover fondling his adored-- Thou hearest music singing of her hair. Thou seest the tryst that's neither here nor there. Thou seest the gallant with his mocking sword, And honor at his feet;--the miser's hoard, And Lo! the music, sword, and tryst are there. Say when has music breathed a song, Encored so long as yonder jingling gold? Say when do lover's wand'ring from the throng, Turn wholly from the mart where love is sold? Ah man! were gold where erst it did belong Then love were winged music as of old.

TO X

And thou hast seen yon priest in holy stole, But thinkest, never yet a jackal's skin, Embodied more hereditary sin-- And he with healing ointment for the soul, May not remember when his own was whole. Behold a myriad monks he ushereth in Whom dol'rous chant pronounceth holy kin, And yet each readeth from a foreign scroll. When all these jarring sects pronounce decree, Then must thou wait another _Fiat lux_. Old Chaos slumbering in eternity, Hath writ his secret hope in monkish books, That some shall beckon when his reign shall be-- And even now the priestly finger crooks.

WANDERING WILLIE

Willie, Willie, merry piper, Wand'rer too from clime to clime, Tell me if thy fruit is riper, Sweeter than my rhime.

Hast thou pluckt a golden apple, I have never tasted yet? Hast thou seen a pearly dapple, Finer skies than mine have set?

Hast thou heard a music sweeter, Than my wildest dreams intone? Hast thou found a joy completer, Than a pleasure I have known?

Willie, Willie, wand'ring ever, Whither wend thy wayward feet? Farther still must we dissever, Only thus again to meet?

Wander on I would not stay thee-- Fain were I a wand'rer too. Drinking where the founts delay thee, Thirsting all thy deserts through.