Chapter 3
In garnered loves of thine, The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years, Somewhere let this lie, grey and salt with tears; It grew too near the sea wind, and the brine Of life, this love of mine.
This sheaf was spoiled in spring, And over-long was green, and early sere, And never gathered gold in the late year From autumn suns, and moons of harvesting, But failed in frosts of spring.
Yet was it thine, my sweet, This love, though weak as young corn withered, Whereof no man may gather and make bread; Thine, though it never knew the summer heat; Forget not quite, my sweet.
AN OLD PRAYER.
Χαιρέ μοι, ω βασίλεια, διαμπερες, εις ο κε γηρας Ελθη και θάνατος, τά τ’ επ’ ανθρώποισι πέλονται.
_Odyssey_, XIII.
MY prayer an old prayer borroweth, Of ancient love and memory— ‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, That come to all men, come to thee.’ Gently as winter’s early breath, Scarce felt, what time the swallows flee, To lands whereof no man knoweth Of summer, over land and sea; So with thy soul may summer be, Even as the ancient singer saith, ‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, That come to all men, come to thee.’
À LA BELLE HÉLÈNE.
AFTER RONSARD.
MORE closely than the clinging vine About the wedded tree, Clasp thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine! About the heart of me. Or seem to sleep, and stoop your face Soft on my sleeping eyes, Breathe in your life, your heart, your grace, Through me, in kissing wise. Bow down, bow down your face, I pray, To me, that swoon to death, Breathe back the life you kissed away, Breathe back your kissing breath. So by your eyes I swear and say, My mighty oath and sure, From your kind arms no maiden may My loving heart allure. I’ll bear your yoke, that’s light enough, And to the Elysian plain, When we are dead of love, my love, One boat shall bear us twain. They’ll flock around you, fleet and fair, All true loves that have been, And you of all the shadows there, Shall be the shadow queen. Ah, shadow-loves and shadow-lips! Ah, while ’tis called to-day, Love me, my love, for summer slips, And August ebbs away.
SYLVIE ET AURÉLIE.
IN MEMORY OF GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
TWO loves there were, and one was born Between the sunset and the rain; Her singing voice went through the corn, Her dance was woven ’neath the thorn, On grass the fallen blossoms stain; And suns may set, and moons may wane, But this love comes no more again.
There were two loves and one made white, Thy singing lips, and golden hair; Born of the city’s mire and light, The shame and splendour of the night, She trapped and fled thee unaware; Not through the lamplight and the rain Shalt thou behold this love again.
Go forth and seek, by wood and hill, Thine ancient love of dawn and dew; There comes no voice from mere or rill, Her dance is over, fallen still The ballad burdens that she knew: And thou must wait for her in vain, Till years bring back thy youth again.
That other love, afield, afar Fled the light love, with lighter feet. Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are, And flit in dreams from star to star, That dead love shalt thou never meet, Till through bleak dawn and blowing rain Thy soul shall find her soul again.
A LOST PATH.
Plotinus, the Greek philosopher, had a certain proper mode of ecstasy, whereby, as Porphyry saith, his soul, becoming free from the deathly flesh, was made one with the Spirit that is in the world.
ALAS, the path is lost, we cannot leave Our bright, our clouded life, and pass away As through strewn clouds, that stain the quiet eve, To heights remoter of the purer day. The soul may not, returning whence she came, Bathe herself deep in Being, and forget The joys that fever, and the cares that fret, Made once more one with the eternal flame That breathes in all things ever more the same. She would be young again, thus drinking deep Of her old life; and this has been, men say, But this we know not, who have only sleep To soothe us, sleep more terrible than day, Where dead delights, and fair lost faces stray, To make us weary at our wakening; And of that long lost path to the Divine We dream, as some Greek shepherd erst might sing, Half credulous, of easy Proserpine, And of the lands that lie ‘beneath the day’s decline.’
THE SHADE OF HELEN.
Some say that Helen went never to Troy, but abode in Egypt; for the gods, having made in her semblance a woman out of clouds and shadows, sent the same to be wife to Paris. For this shadow then the Greeks and Trojans slew each other.
WHY from the quiet hollows of the hills, And extreme meeting place of light and shade, Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and became Clouds among sister clouds, where fair spent beams And dying glories of the sun would dwell, Why have they whom I know not, nor may know, Strange hands, unseen and ruthless, fashioned me, And borne me from the silent shadowy hills, Hither, to noise and glow of alien life, To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war?
One speaks unto me words that would be sweet, Made harsh, made keen with love that knows me not, And some strange force, within me or around, Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh, And somewhere there is fever in the halls That troubles me, for no such trouble came To vex the cool far hollows of the hills.
The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry, That house, and wife, and lands, and all Troy town, Are little to lose, if they may keep me here, And see me flit, a pale and silent shade, Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines.
At other hours another life seems mine, Where one great river runs unswollen of rain, By pyramids of unremembered kings, And homes of men obedient to the Dead. There dark and quiet faces come and go Around me, then again the shriek of arms, And all the turmoil of the Ilian men.
What are they? even shadows such as I. What make they? Even this—the sport of gods— The sport of gods, however free they seem. Ah, would the game were ended, and the light, The blinding light, and all too mighty suns, Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades, Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist, Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills.
SONNETS
SHE.
To H. R. H.
NOT in the waste beyond the swamps and sand, The fever-haunted forest and lagoon, Mysterious Kôr thy walls forsaken stand, Thy lonely towers beneath the lonely moon, Not there doth Ayesha linger, rune by rune Spelling strange scriptures of a people banned. The world is disenchanted; over soon Shall Europe send her spies through all the land.
Nay, not in Kôr, but in whatever spot, In town or field, or by the insatiate sea, Men brood on buried loves, and unforgot, Or break themselves on some divine decree, Or would o’erleap the limits of their lot, There, in the tombs and deathless, dwelleth SHE!
HERODOTUS IN EGYPT.
HE left the land of youth, he left the young, The smiling gods of Greece; he passed the isle Where Jason loitered, and where Sappho sung, He sought the secret-founted wave of Nile, And of their old world, dead a weary while, Heard the priests murmur in their mystic tongue, And through the fanes went voyaging, among Dark tribes that worshipped Cat and Crocodile.
He learned the tales of death Divine and birth, Strange loves of Hawk and Serpent, Sky and Earth, The marriage, and the slaying of the Sun. The shrines of gods and beasts he wandered through, And mocked not at their godhead, for he knew Behind all creeds the Spirit that is One.
GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
OF all that were thy prisons—ah, untamed, Ah, light and sacred soul!—none holds thee now; No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou Art free and happy in the lands unnamed, Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed, Thou still would’st bear that mystic golden bough The Sibyl doth to singing men allow, Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed. And they would smile and wonder, seeing where Thou stood’st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind, Dreamily murmuring a ballad air, Caught from the Valois peasants; dost thou find A new life gladder than the old times were, A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind?
RONSARD.
MASTER, I see thee with the locks of grey, Crowned by the Muses with the laurel-wreath; I see the roses hiding underneath, Cassandra’s gift; she was less dear than they. Thou, Master, first hast roused the lyric lay, The sleeping song that the dead years bequeath, Hast sung thine answer to the lays that breathe Through ages, and through ages far away.
And thou hast heard the pulse of Pindar beat, Known Horace by the fount Bandusian! Their deathless line thy living strains repeat, But ah, thy voice is sad, thy roses wan, But ah, thy honey is not honey-sweet, Thy bees have fed on yews Sardinian!
LOVE’S MIRACLE.
WITH other helpless folk about the gate, The gate called Beautiful, with weary eyes That take no pleasure in the summer skies, Nor all things that are fairest, does she wait; So bleak a time, so sad a changeless fate Makes her with dull experience early wise, And in the dawning and the sunset, sighs That all hath been, and shall be, desolate.
Ah, if Love come not soon, and bid her live, And know herself the fairest of fair things, Ah, if he have no healing gift to give, Warm from his breast, and holy from his wings, Or if at least Love’s shadow in passing by Touch not and heal her, surely she must die.
DREAMS.
HE spake not truth, however wise, who said That happy, and that hapless men in sleep Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deep As countless, careless, races of the dead. Not so, for alien paths of dreams we tread, And one beholds the faces that he sighs In vain to bring before his daylit eyes, And waking, he remembers on his bed;
And one with fainting heart and feeble hand Fights a dim battle in a doubtful land Where strength and courage were of no avail; And one is borne on fairy breezes far To the bright harbours of a golden star Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale.
TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS.
‘Les Sirènes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de Proserpine, qu’elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste deul de la perte de leur chère compagne, et enuyées jusques au desepoir, elles s’arrestèrent à la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l’unique fin de la volupté de leur musique est la Mort.’
PONTUS DE TYARD, 1570
THE Sirens once were maidens innocent That through the water-meads with Proserpine Plucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content Cool fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine, With lilies woven and with wet woodbine; Till once they sought the bright Ætnæan flowers, And their glad mistress fled from summer hours With Hades, far from olive, corn, and vine. And they have sought her all the wide world through Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong Have filled and changed their song, and o’er the blue Rings deadly sweet the magic of the song, And whoso hears must listen till he die Far on the flowery shores of Sicily.
So is it with this singing art of ours, That once with maids went maidenlike, and played With woven dances in the poplar-shade, And all her song was but of lady’s bowers And the returning swallows, and spring flowers, Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed, A shadowy land; and now hath overweighed Her singing chaplet with the snow and showers. Yes, fair well-water for the bitter brine She left, and by the margin of life’s sea Sings, and her song is full of the sea’s moan, And wild with dread, and love of Proserpine; And whoso once has listened to her, he His whole life long is slave to her alone.
TRANSLATIONS
HYMN TO THE WINDS.
THE WINDS ARE INVOKED BY THE WINNOWERS OF CORN.
DU BELLAY, 1550.
TO you, troop so fleet, That with winged wandering feet, Through the wide world pass, And with soft murmuring Toss the green shades of spring In woods and grass, Lily and violet I give, and blossoms wet, Roses and dew; This branch of blushing roses, Whose fresh bud uncloses, Wind-flowers too.
Ah, winnow with sweet breath, Winnow the holt and heath, Round this retreat; Where all the golden mom We fan the gold o’ the corn, In the sun’s heat.
MOONLIGHT.
JACQUES TAHUREAU.
THE high Midnight was garlanding her head With many a shining star in shining skies, And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes, And, after sorrow, quietness was shed. Far in dim fields cicalas jargonèd A thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries; And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise, With pallor of the sad moon overspread.
Then came my lady to that lonely place, And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over; Wherefore the day is far less dear than night, And sweeter is the shadow than the light, Since night has made me such a happy lover.
THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE.
VICTOR HUGO.
THE Grave said to the Rose, ‘What of the dews of morn, Love’s flower, what end is theirs?’ ‘And what of souls outworn, Of them whereon doth close The tomb’s mouth unawares?’ The Rose said to the Grave.
The Rose said, ‘In the shade From the dawn’s tears is made A perfume faint and strange, Amber and honey sweet.’ ‘And all the spirits fleet Do suffer a sky-change, More strangely than the dew, To God’s own angels new,’ The Grave said to the Rose.
A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS.
DU BELLAY.
We that with like hearts love, we lovers twain, New wedded in the village by thy fane, Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is We bring these amaranths, these white lilies, A sign, and sacrifice; may Love, we pray, Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay; Like these cool lilies may our loves remain, Perfect and pure, and know not any stain; And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour, Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower.
OF HIS LADY’S OLD AGE.
RONSARD.
When you are very old, at evening You’ll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, Humming my songs, ‘Ah well, ah well-a-day! When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.’ None of your maidens that doth hear the thing, Albeit with her weary task foredone, But wakens at my name, and calls you one Blest, to be held in long remembering.
I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade, While you beside the fire, a grandame grey, My love, your pride, remember and regret; Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet, And gather roses, while ’t is called to-day.
SHADOWS OF HIS LADY.
JACQUES TAHUREAU.
WITHIN the sand of what far river lies The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love? What highest circle of the Heavens above Is jewelled with such stars as are her eyes? And where is the rich sea whose coral vies With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough? What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof The fled soul lives in her cheeks’ rosy guise?
What Parian marble that is loveliest Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast? When drew she breath from the Sabæan glade? Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea, Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that be The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!
APRIL.
RÉMY BELLEAU, 1560.
APRIL, pride of woodland ways, Of glad days, April, bringing hope of prime, To the young flowers that beneath Their bud sheath Are guarded in their tender time;
April, pride of fields that be Green and free, That in fashion glad and gay, Stud with flowers red and blue, Every hue, Their jewelled spring array;
April, pride of murmuring Winds of spring, That beneath the winnowed air, Trap with subtle nets and sweet Flora’s feet, Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;
April, by thy hand caressed, From her breast, Nature scatters everywhere Handfuls of all sweet perfumes, Buds and blooms, Making faint the earth and air.
April, joy of the green hours, Clothes with flowers Over all her locks of gold My sweet Lady; and her breast With the blest Buds of summer manifold.
April, with thy gracious wiles, Like the smiles, Smiles of Venus; and thy breath Like her breath, the gods’ delight, (From their height They take the happy air beneath;)
It is thou that, of thy grace, From their place In the far-off isles dost bring Swallows over earth and sea, Glad to be Messengers of thee, and Spring.
Daffodil and eglantine, And woodbine, Lily, violet, and rose Plentiful in April fair, To the air, Their pretty petals to unclose.
Nightingales ye now may hear, Piercing clear, Singing in the deepest shade; Many and many a babbled note Chime and float, Woodland music through the glade.
April, all to welcome thee, Spring sets free Ancient flames, and with low breath Wakes the ashes grey and old That the cold Chilled within our hearts to death.
Thou beholdest in the warm Hours, the swarm Of the thievish bees, that flies Evermore from bloom to bloom For perfume, Hid away in tiny thighs.
Her cool shadows May can boast, Fruits almost Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew, Manna-sweet and honey-sweet, That complete Her flower garland fresh and new.
Nay, but I will give my praise To these days, Named with the glad name of Her {102} That from out the foam o’ the sea Came to be Sudden light on earth and air.
AN OLD TUNE.
GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
THERE is an air for which I would disown Mozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies,— A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
Whene’er I hear that music vague and old, Two hundred years are mist that rolls away; The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold A green land golden in the dying day.
An old red castle, strong with stony towers, The windows gay with many-coloured glass; Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, A lady looks forth from her window high; It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by.
OLD LOVES.
HENRI MURGER.
LOUISE, have you forgotten yet The corner of the flowery land, The ancient garden where we met, My hand that trembled in your hand? Our lips found words scarce sweet enough, As low beneath the willow-trees We sat; have you forgotten, love? Do you remember, love Louise?
Marie, have you forgotten yet The loving barter that we made? The rings we changed, the suns that set, The woods fulfilled with sun and shade? The fountains that were musical By many an ancient trysting tree— Marie, have you forgotten all? Do you remember, love Marie?
Christine, do you remember yet Your room with scents and roses gay? My garret—near the sky ’twas set— The April hours, the nights of May? The clear calm nights—the stars above That whispered they were fairest seen Through no cloud-veil? Remember, love! Do you remember, love Christine?
Louise is dead, and, well-a-day! Marie a sadder path has ta’en; And pale Christine has passed away In southern suns to bloom again. Alas! for one and all of us— Marie, Louise, Christine forget; Our bower of love is ruinous, And I alone remember yet.
A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE.
I be pareld most of prise, I ride after the wild fee.
* * * * *
Will ye that I should sing Of the love of a goodly thing, Was no vilein’s may? ’Tis all of a knight so free, Under the olive tree, Singing this lay.
Her weed was of samite fine, Her mantle of white ermine, Green silk her hose; Her shoon with silver gay, Her sandals flowers of May, Laced small and close.
Her belt was of fresh spring buds, Set with gold clasps and studs, Fine linen her shift; Her purse it was of love, Her chain was the flower thereof, And Love’s gift.
Upon a mule she rode, The selle was of brent gold, The bits of silver made; Three red rose trees there were That overshadowed her, For a sun shade.
She riding on a day, Knights met her by the way, They did her grace: ‘Fair lady, whence be ye?’ ‘France it is my countrie, I come of a high race.
‘My sire is the nightingale, That sings, making his wail, In the wild wood, clear; The mermaid is mother to me, That sings in the salt sea, In the ocean mere.’
‘Ye come of a right good race, And are born of a high place, And of high degree; Would to God that ye were Given unto me, being fair, My lady and love to be.’
IANNOULA.
ROMAIC FOLK-SONG.
ALL the maidens were merry and wed All to lovers so fair to see; The lover I took to my bridal bed He is not long for love and me.
I spoke to him and he nothing said, I gave him bread of the wheat so fine; He did not eat of the bridal bread, He did not drink of the bridal wine.
I made him a bed was soft and deep, I made him a bed to sleep with me; ‘Look on me once before you sleep, And look on the flower of my fair body.
‘Flowers of April, and fresh May-dew, Dew of April and buds of May; Two white blossoms that bud for you, Buds that blossom before the day.’
THE MILK-WHITE DOE.
FRENCH VOLKS-LIED.
IT was a mother and a maid That walked the woods among, And still the maid went slow and sad, And still the mother sung.
‘What ails you, daughter Margaret? Why go you pale and wan? Is it for a cast of bitter love, Or for a false leman?’
‘It is not for a false lover That I go sad to see; But it is for a weary life Beneath the greenwood tree.
‘For ever in the good daylight A maiden may I go, But always on the ninth midnight I change to a milk-white doe.
‘They hunt me through the green forest With hounds and hunting men; And ever it is my fair brother That is so fierce and keen.’
* * * * *
‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son; Where are your hounds so good?’ ‘Oh, they are hunting a white doe Within the glad greenwood.
‘And three times have they hunted her, And thrice she’s won away; The fourth time that they follow her That white doe they shall slay.’
* * * * *
Then out and spoke the forester, As he came from the wood, ‘Now never saw I maid’s gold hair Among the wild deer’s blood.
‘And I have hunted the wild deer In east lands and in west; And never saw I white doe yet That had a maiden’s breast.’
Then up and spake her fair brother, Between the wine and bread: ‘Behold I had but one sister, And I have been her dead.