Chapter 2

Listen, for they of ghostly speech, Who died when Christ was born, May dance upon the golden beach That once was golden corn.

And you may learn of Dyfed's reign, And dream Nemedian tales Of Kings who sailed in ships from Spain And lent their swords to Wales.

Listen, for like a golden snake The Ocean twists and stirs, And whispers how the dead men wake And call across the years.

OXFORD CANAL

When you have wearied of the valiant spires of this County Town, Of its wide white streets and glistening museums, and black monastic walls, Of its red motors and lumbering trains, and self-sufficient people, I will take you walking with me to a place you have not seen - Half town and half country--the land of the Canal. It is dearer to me than the antique town: I love it more than the rounded hills: Straightest, sublimest of rivers is the long Canal. I have observed great storms and trembled: I have wept for fear of the dark. But nothing makes me so afraid as the clear water of this idle canal on a summer s noon. Do you see the great telegraph poles down in the water, how every wire is distinct? If a body fell into the canal it would rest entangled in those wires for ever, between earth and air. For the water is as deep as the stars are high. One day I was thinking how if a man fell from that lofty pole He would rush through the water toward me till his image was scattered by his splash, When suddenly a train rushed by: the brazen dome of the engine flashed: the long white carriages roared; The sun veiled himself for a moment, and the signals loomed in fog; A savage woman screamed at me from a barge: little children began to cry; The untidy landscape rose to life: a sawmill started; A cart rattled down to the wharf, and workmen clanged over the iron footbridge; A beautiful old man nodded from the first story window of a square red house, And a pretty girl came out to hang up clothes in a small delightful garden. O strange motion in the suburb of a county town: slow regular movement of the dance of death! Men and not phantoms are these that move in light. Forgotten they live, and forgotten die.

HIALMAR SPEAKS TO THE RAVEN from Leconte de Lisle

Night on the bloodstained snow: the wind is chill: And there a thousand tombless warriors lie, Grasping their swords, wild-featured. All are still. Above them the black ravens wheel and cry.

A brilliant moon sends her cold light abroad: Hialmar arises from the reddened slain, Heavily leaning on his broken sword, And bleeding from his side the battle-rain.

"Hail to you all: is there one breath still drawn Among those fierce and fearless lads who played So merrily, and sang as sweet in the dawn As thrushes singing in the bramble shade?

"They have no word to say: my helm's unbound, My breastplate by the axe unriveted: Blood's on my eyes; I hear a spreading sound, Like waves or wolves that clamour in my head.

"Eater of men, old raven, come this way, And with thine iron bill open my breast: To-morrow find us where we lie to-day, And bear my heart to her that I love best.

"Through Upsala, where drink the Jarls and sing, And clash their golden bowls in company, Bird of the moor, carry on tireless wing To Ylmer's daughter there the heart of me.

"And thou shalt see her standing straight and pale, High pedestalled on some rook-haunted tower: She has two earrings, silver and vermeil, And eyes like stars that shine in sunset hour.

"Tell her my love, thou dark bird ominous; Give her my heart, no bloodless heart and vile But red compact and strong, O raven. Thus Shall Ylmer's daughter greet thee with a smile.

"Now let my life from twenty deep wounds flow, And wolves may drink the blood. My time is done. Young, brave and spotless, I rejoice to go And sit where all the Gods are, in the sun."

THE BALLAD OF THE STUDENT IN THE SOUTH

It was no sooner than this morn That first I found you there, Deep in a field of southern corn As golden as your hair.

I had read books you had not read, Yet I was put to shame To hear the simple words you said, And see your eyes aflame.

Shall I forget when prying dawn Sends me about my way, The careless stars, the quiet lawn, And you with whom I lay?

Your's is the beauty of the moon, The wisdom of the sea, Since first you tasted, sweet and soon, Of God's forbidden tree.

Darling, a scholar's fancies sink So faint beneath your song; And you are right, why should we think, We who are young and strong?

For we are simple, you and I, We do what others do, Linger and toil and laugh and die And love the whole night through.

THE QUEEN'S SONG

Had I the power To Midas given of old To touch a flower And leave the petals gold I then might touch thy face, Delightful boy, And leave a metal grace, A graven joy.

Thus would I slay, - Ah, desperate device! The vital day That trembles in thine eyes, And let the red lips close Which sang so well, And drive away the rose To leave a shell.

Then I myself, Rising austere and dumb On the hight shelf Of my half-lighted room, Would place the shining bust And wait alone, Until I was but dust, Buried unknown.

Thus in my love For nations yet unborn, I would remove From our two lives the morn, And muse on loveliness In mine armchair, Content should Time confess How sweet you were.

LORD ARNALDOS Quien hubiese tal ventura?

The strangest of adventures, That happen by the sea, Befell to Lord Arnaldos On the Evening of St. John; For he was out a hunting - A huntsman bold was he! - When he beheld a little ship And close to land was she. Her cords were all of silver, Her sails of cramasy; And he who sailed the little ship Was singing at the helm; The waves stood still to hear him, The wind was soft and low; The fish who dwell in darkness Ascended through the sea, And all the birds in heaven Flew down to his mast-tree. Then spake the Lord Arnaldos, (Well shall you hear his words!) "Tell me for God's sake, sailor, What song may that song be?" The sailor spake in answer, And answer thus made he; - "I only tell my song to those Who sail away with me."

WE THAT WERE FRIENDS

We that were friends to-night have found A sudden fear, a secret flame: I am on fire with that soft sound You make, in uttering my name.

Forgive a young and boastful man Whom dreams delight and passions please, And love me as great women can Who have no children at their knees.

MY FRIEND

I had a friend who battled for the truth With stubborn heart and obstinate despair, Till all his beauty left him, and his youth, And there were few to love him anywhere.

Then would he wander out among the graves, And think of dead men lying in a row; Or, standing on a cliff observe the waves, And hear the wistful sound of winds below;

And yet they told him nothing. So he sought The twittering forest at the break of day, Or on fantastic mountains shaped a thought As lofty and impenitent as they.

And next he went in wonder through a town Slowly by day and hurriedly by night, And watched men walking up the street and down With timorous and terrible delight.

Weary, he drew man's wisdom from a book, And pondered on the high words spoken of old, Pacing a lamplit room: but soon forsook The golden sentences that left him cold.

After, a woman found him, and his head Lay on her breast, till he forgot his pain In gentle kisses on a midnight bed, And welcomed royal-winged joy again.

When love became a loathing, as it must, He knew not where to turn; and he was wise, Being now old, to sink among the dust, And rest his rebel heart, and close his eyes.

IDEAL

When all my gentle friends had gone I wandered in the night alone: Beneath the green electric glare I saw men pass with hearts of stone. Yet still I heard them everywhere, Those golden voices of the air: "Friend, we will go to hell with thee, Thy griefs, thy glories we will share, And rule the earth, and bind the sea, And set ten thousand devils free;--" "What dost thou, stranger, at my side, Thou gaunt old man accosting me? Away, this is my night of pride! On lunar seas my boat will glide And I shall know the secret things." The old man answered: "Woe betide!" Said I "The world was made for kings: To him who works and working sings Come joy and majesty and power And steadfast love with royal wings." "O watch these fools that blink and cower," Said that wise man: "and every hour A score is born, a dozen dies." Said I: --"In London fades the flower; But far away the bright blue skies Shall watch my solemn walls arise, And all the glory, all the grace Of earth shall gather there, and eyes Will shine like stars in that new place." Said he. "Indeed of ancient race Thou comest, with thy hollow scheme. But sail, O architect of dream, To lands beyond the Ocean stream. Where are the islands of the blest, And where Atlantis, where Theleme?"

MARY MAGDALEN

O eyes that strip the souls of men! There came to me the Magdalen. Her blue robe with a cord was bound, Her hair with Lenten lilies crowned. "Arise," she said "God calls for thee, Turned to new paths thy feet must be. Leave the fever and the feast Leave the friend thou lovest best: For thou must walk in barefoot ways, To give my dear Lord Jesus praise."

Then answered I--"Sweet Magdalen, God's servant, once beloved of men, Why didst thou change old ways for new, Thy trailing red for corded blue, Roses for lilies on thy brow, Rich splendour for a barren vow?"

Gentle of speech she answered me:- "Sir, I was sick with revelry. True, I have scarred the night with sin, A pale and tawdry heroine; But once I heard a voice that said 'Who lives in sin is surely dead, But whoso turns to follow me Hath joy and immortality.'"

"O Mary, not for this," I cried, "Didst thou renounce thy scented pride. Not for a taste of endless years Or barren joy apart from tears Didst thou desert the courts of men. Tell me thy truth, sweet Magdalen!"

She trembled, and her eyes grew dim:- "For love of Him, for love of Him."

I ROSE FROM DREAMLESS HOURS

I rose from dreamless hours and sought the morn That beat upon my window: from the sill I watched sweet lands, where Autumn light newborn Swayed through the trees and lingered on the hill. If things so lovely are, why labour still To dream of something more than this I see? Do I remember tales of Galilee, I who have slain my faith and freed my will? Let me forget dead faith, dead mystery, Dead thoughts of things I cannot comprehend. Enough the light mysterious in the tree, Enough the friendship of my chosen friend.

PRAYER

Let me not know how sins and sorrows glide Along the sombre city of our rage, Or why the sons of men are heavy-eyed.

Let me not know, except from printed page, The pain of litter love, of baffled pride, Or sickness shadowing with a long presage.

Let me not know, since happy some have died Quickly in youth or quietly in age, How faint, how loud the bravest hearts have cried.

A MIRACLE OF BETHLEHEM

SCENE: A street of that village. Three men with ropes, accosted by a stranger.

THE STRANGER

I pray you, tell me where you go With heads averted from the skies, And long ropes trailing in the snow, And resolution in your eyes.

THE FIRST MAN

I am a lover sick of love, For scorn rewards my constancy; And now I hate the stars above, Because my dear will naught of me.

THE SECOND MAN

I am a beggar man, and play Songs with a splendid swing in them, But I have seen no food to-day. They want no song in Bethlehem.

THE THIRD MAN

I am an old man, Sir, and blind, A child of darkness since my birth. I cannot even call to mind The beauty of the scheme of earth.

Therefore I sought to understand A secret hid from mortal eyes, So in a far and fragrant land I talked with men accounted wise,

And I implored the Indian priest For wisdom from his holy snake, Yet am no wiser in the least, And have not seen the darkness break.

STRANGER

And whither go ye now, unhappy three?

THE THREE MEN WITH ROPES

Sir, in our strange and special misery We met this night, and swore in bitter pride To sing one song together, friend with friend, And then, proceeding to the country side, To bind this cordage to a barren tree, And face to face to give our lives an end, And only thus shall we be satisfied. (They make to continue their road)

THE STRANGER

Stay for a moment. Great is your despair, But God is kind. What voice from over there?

A WOMAN (from a lattice)

My lover, O my lover, come to me!

FIRST MAN

God with you. (he runs to the window)

STRANGER

Ah, how swiftly gone is he!

MANY VOICES, (heard singing in a cottage)

There is a softness in the night A wonder in that splendid star That fills us with delight, Poor foolish working people that we are, And only fit to keep A little garden or a dozen sheep.

Old broken women at the fire Have many ancient tales they sing, How the whole world's desire Should blossom here, and how a child should bring New glory to his race Though born in so contemptible a place.

Let all come in, if any brother go In shame or hunger, cold or fear, Through all this waste of snow. To night the Star, the Rose, the Song are near, And still inside the door Is full provision for another score. (The Beggar runs to them)

THE STRANGER (to the Blind Man)

Do you not mean to share these joys?

THE BLIND MAN

Aweary of this earthly noise I pace my silent way. Come you and help me tie this rope: I would not lose my only hope. Already clear the birds I hear, Already breaks the day.

STRANGER

O foolish and most blind old man, Where are those other two?

THE BLIND MAN

Why, one is wed and t'other fed: Small thanks they gave to you.

STRANGER

To me no thanks are due. Yet since I have some little power Bequeathed me at this holy hour, I tell you, friend, that God shall grant This night to you your dearest want.

THE BLIND MAN

Why this sweet odour? Why this flame? I am afraid. What is your name?

THE STRANGER

Ask your desire, for this great night Is passing.

THE BLIND MAN

Sir, I ask my sight.

THE STRANGER

To see this earth? Or would you see That hidden world which sent you me?

THE BLIND MAN

O sweet it were but once before I die To track the bird about the windy sky, Or watch the soft and changing grace Imprinted on a human face. Yet grant me that which most I struggled for, Since I am old, and snow is on the ground. On earth there's little to be found, And I would bear with earth no more. O gentle youth, A fool am I, but let me see the Truth!

THE STRANGER

Gaze in my eyes.

THE BLIND MAN

How can I gaze? What song is that, and what these rays Of splendour and this rush of wings?

THE STRANGER

These are the new celestial things.

THE BLIND MAN

Round the body of a child A great dark flame runs wild. What may this be?

THE STRANGER

Look further, you shall see.

THE BLIND MAN

Out on the sea of time and far away The Empires sail like ships, and many years Scatter before them in a mist of spray: Beyond is mist--when the mist clears - Enough--Away!--O friend, I would be there!

STRANGER

It is most sure that God has heard his prayer. (The stranger vanishes)

THE BEGGAR

(Leading a troop of revellers from the house where they were singing)

Come, brothers, seek my friend and bring him in. On such a night as this it were a sin To leave the blind alone.

THE REVELLERS

Greatly we fear lest he, still resolute, Have wandered to the fields for poisoned fruit.

THE BEGGAR

See here upon this stone . . . He is all frozen . . . take him to a bed And warm his hands.

THE REVELLERS

O sorrow, he is dead!

GRAVIS DULCIS IMMUTABILIS

Come, let me kiss your wistful face Where Sorrow curves her bow of pain, And live sweet days and bitter days With you, or wanting you again.

I dread your perishable gold: Come near me now; the years are few. Alas, when you and I are old I shall not want to look at you:

And yet come in. I shall not dare To gaze upon your countenance, But I shall huddle in my chair, Turn to the fire my fireless glance,

And listen, while that slow and grave Immutable sweet voice of yours Rises and falls, as falls a wave In summer on forgotten shores.

PILLAGE

They will trample our gardens to mire, they will bury our city in fire; Our women await their desire, our children the clang of the chain. Our grave-eyed judges and lords they will bind by the neck with cords, And harry with whips and swords till they perish of shame or pain, And the great lapis lazuli dome where the gods of our race had a home Will break like a wave from the foam, and shred into fiery rain.

No more on the long summer days shall we walk in the meadow-sweet ways With the teachers of music and phrase, and the masters of dance and design. No more when the trumpeter calls shall we feast in the white-light halls; For stayed are the soft footfalls of the moon-browed bearers of wine, And lost are the statues of Kings and of Gods with great glorious wings, And an empire of beautiful things, and the lips of the love who was mine.

We have vanished, but not into night, though our manhood we sold to delight, Neglecting the chances of fight, unfit for the spear and the bow. We are dead, but our living was great: we are dumb, but a song of our State Will roam in the desert and wait, with its burden of long, long ago, Till a scholar from sea-bright lands unearth from the years and the sands Some image with beautiful hands, and know what we want him to know.

THE BALLAD OF ZACHO (a Greek Legend.)

Zacho the King rode out of old (And truth is what I tell) With saddle and spurs and a rein of gold To find the door of Hell.

And round around him surged the dead With soft and lustrous eyes. "Why came you here, old friend?" they said: "Unwise . . . unwise . . . unwise!

"You should have left to the prince your son Spurs and saddle and rein: Your bright and morning days are done; You ride not out again."

"I came to greet my friends who fell Sword-scattered from my side; And when I've drunk the wine of Hell I'll out again and ride!"

But Charon rose and caught his hair In fingers sharp and long. "Loose me, old ferryman: play fair: Try if my arm be strong."

Thrice drave he hard on Charon's breast, And struck him thrice to ground, Till stranger ghosts came out o' the west And sat like stars around.

And thrice old Charon rose up high And seized him as before. "Loose me! a broken man am I, And fight with you no more.''

"Zacho, arise, my home is near; I pray you walk with me: I've hung my tent so full of fear You well may shake to see.

"Home to my home come they who fight, Who fight but not to win: Without, my tent is black as night, And red as fire within.

"Though winds blow cold and I grow old, My tent is fast and fair: The pegs are dead men's stout right arms, The cords, their golden hair."

PAVLOVNA IN LONDON

I listened to the hunger-hearted clown, Sadder than he: I heard a woman sing, - A tall dark woman in a scarlet gown - And saw those golden toys the jugglers fling. I found a tawdry room and there sat I, There angled for each murmur soft and strange, The pavement-cries from darkness and below: I watched the drinkers laugh, the lovers sigh, And thought how little all the world would change If clowns were audience, and we the Show.

What starry music are they playing now? What dancing in this dreary theatre? Who is she with the moon upon her brow, And who the fire-foot god that follows her? - Follows among those unbelieved-in trees Back-shadowing in their parody of light Across the little cardboard balustrade; And we, like that poor Faun who pipes and flees, Adore their beauty, hate it for too bright, And tremble, half in rapture, half afraid.

Play on, O furtive and heartbroken Faun! What is your thin dull pipe for such as they? I know you blinded by the least white dawn, And dare you face their quick and quivering Day? Dare you, like us, weak but undaunted men, Reliant on some deathless spark in you Turn your dull eyes to what the gods desire, Touch the light finger of your goddess; then After a second's flash of gold and blue, Drunken with that divinity, expire?

O dance, Diana, dance, Endymion, Till calm ancestral shadows lay their hands Gently across mine eyes: in days long gone Have I not danced with gods in garden lands? I too a wild unsighted atom borne Deep in the heart of some heroic boy Span in the dance ten thousand years ago, And while his young eyes glittered in the morn Something of me felt something of his joy, And longed to rule a body, and to know.

Singer long dead and sweeter-lipped than I, In whose proud line the soul-dark phrases burn, Would you could praise their passionate symmetry, Who loved the colder shapes, the Attic urn. But your far song, my faint one, what are they, And what their dance and faery thoughts and ours, Or night abloom with splendid stars and pale? 'Tis an old story that sweet flowers decay, And dreams, the noblest, die as soon as flowers, And dancers, all the world of them, must fail.

THE SENTIMENTALIST

There lies a photograph of you Deep in a box of broken things. This was the face I loved and knew Five years ago, when life had wings;

Five years ago, when through a town Of bright and soft and shadowy bowers We walked and talked and trailed our gown Regardless of the cinctured hours.

The precepts that we held I kept; Proudly my ways with you I went: We lived our dreams while others slept, And did not shrink from sentiment.

Now I go East and you stay West And when between us Europe lies I shall forget what I loved best Away from lips and hands and eyes.

But we were Gods then: we were they Who laughed at fools, believed in friends, And drank to all that golden day Before us, which this poem ends.

DON JUAN IN HELL (from Baudelaire.)

The night Don Juan came to pay his fees To Charon, by the caverned water's shore, A beggar, proud-eyed as Antisthenes, Stretched out his knotted fingers on the oar.

Mournful, with drooping breasts and robes unsewn The shapes of women swayed in ebon skies, Trailing behind him with a restless moan Like cattle herded for a sacrifice.

Here, grinning for his wage, stood Sganarelle, And here Don Luis pointed, bent and dim, To show the dead who lined the holes of Hell, This was that impious son who mocked at him.

The hollow-eyed, the chaste Elvira came, Trembling and veiled, to view her traitor spouse. Was it one last bright smile she thought to claim, Such as made sweet the morning of his vows?

A great stone man rose like a tower on board, Stood at the helm and cleft the flood profound: But the calm hero, leaning on his sword, Gazed back, and would not offer one look round.

THE BALLAD OF ISKANDER

Aflatun and Aristu and King Iskander Are Plato, Aristotle, Alexander.

Sultan Iskander sat him down On his golden throne, in his golden crown, And shouted, "Wine and flute-girls three, And the Captain, ho! of my ships at sea."

He drank his bowl of wine; he kept The flute-girls dancing till they wept, Praised and kissed their painted lips, And turned to the Captain of All his Ships

And cried, "O Lord of my Ships that go From the Persian Gulf to the Pits of Snow, Inquire for men unknown to man!" Said Sultan Iskander of Yoonistan.

"Daroosh is dead, and I am King Of Everywhere and Everything: Yet leagues and leagues away for sure The lion-hearted dream of war.

"Admiral, I command you sail! Take you a ship of silver mail, And fifty sailors, young and bold, And stack provision deep in the hold,

"And seek out twenty men that know All babel tongues which flaunt and flow; And stay! Impress those learned two, Old Aflatun, and Aristu.

"And set your prow South-western ways A thousand bright and dimpling days, And find me lion-hearted Lords With breasts to feed Our rusting swords."