Chapter 2

And to myself in games I said, 'What mean the books? can I win fame I would be like the faithful dead, A fearless man, and pure of blame.'"

Then, too, there are poems of a sombre yet tender philosophy, of an Epicureanism that is seldom languid, of a Stoicism that is never hard. In this world, where so much is dark, he seems to say, we must all clasp hands and move forwards, shoulder to shoulder, never forgetting the warm companionship in the presence of the blind chaotic forces that wave their shadowy wings about us. We must love what is near and dear, we must be courageous and tender-hearted in the difficult valley. The book is full of the passionate sadness of one who feels alike the intensity and the brevity of life, and who cannot conjecture why fair things must fade as surely as they bloom.

The poems then reflect a kind of Platonic agnosticism; they offer no solution of the formless mystery; but they seem rather to indicate the hope that, in the multiplying of human relationship, in devotion to all we hold dear, in the enkindling of the soul by all that is generous and noble and unselfish, lies the best hope of the individual and of the race. Uncheered by Christian hopefulness, and yet strong in their belief in the ardours and passions of humanity, these poems may help us to remember and love the best of life, its days of sunshine and youth, its generous companionships, its sweet ties of loyalty and love, its brave hopes and ardent impulses, which may be ours, if we are only loving and generous and high-hearted, to the threshold of the dark, and perhaps beyond.

ARTHUR C. BENSON.

DESIDERATO

Oh, lost and unforgotten friend, Whose presence change and chance deny; If angels turn your soft proud eye To lines your cynic playmate penned,

Look on them, as you looked on me, When both were young; when, as we went Through crowds or forest ferns, you leant On him who loved your staff to be;

And slouch your lazy length again On cushions fit for aching brow (Yours always ached, you know), and now

As dainty languishing as then, Give them but one fastidious look, And if you see a trace of him Who humoured you in every whim,

Seek for his heart within his book: For though there be enough to mark The man's divergence from the boy, Yet shines my faith without alloy

For him who led me through that park; And though a stranger throw aside Such grains of common sentiment, Yet let your haughty head be bent

To take the jetsom of the tide; Because this brackish turbid sea Throws toward thee things that pleased of yore, And though it wash thy feet no more,

Its murmurs mean: "I yearn for thee." The world may like, for all I care, The gentler voice, the cooler head, That bows a rival to despair,

And cheaply compliments the dead; That smiles at all that's coarse and rash, Yet wins the trophies of the fight, Unscathed, in honour's wreck and crash,

Heartless, but always in the right;. Thanked for good counsel by the judge Who tramples on the bleeding brave, Thanked too by him who will not budge From claims thrice hallowed by the grave.

Thanked, and self-pleased: ay, let him wear What to that noble breast was due; And I, dear passionate Teucer, dare Go through the homeless world with you.

MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH

You promise heavens free from strife, Pure truth, and perfect change of will; But sweet, sweet is this human life, So sweet, I fain would breathe it still; Your chilly stars I can forego, This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here, One great reality above: Back from that void I shrink in fear, And child-like hide myself in love: Show me what angels feel. Till then, I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

You bid me lift my mean desires From faltering lips and fitful veins To sexless souls, ideal quires, Unwearied voices, wordless strains: My mind with fonder welcome owns One dear dead friend's remembered tones.

Forsooth the present we must give To that which cannot pass away; All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and space decay. But oh, the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die.

HERACLITUS

They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

IOLE

I will not leave the smouldering pyre: Enough remains to light again: But who am I to dare desire A place beside the king of men?

So burnt my dear Ochalian town; And I an outcast gazed and groaned. But, when my father's roof fell down, For all that wrong sweet love atoned.

He led me trembling to the ship, He seemed at least to love me then; He soothed, he clasped me lip to lip: How strange, to wed the king of men.

I linger, orphan, widow, slave, I lived when sire and brethren died; Oh, had I shared my mother's grave, . Or clomb unto the hero's side!

That comrade old hath made his moan; The centaur cowers within his den: And I abide to guard alone The ashes of the king of men.

Alone, beneath the night divine-- Alone, another weeps elsewhere: Her love for him is unlike mine, Her wail she will not let me share.

STESICHORUS

Queen of the Argives, (thus the poet spake,) Great lady Helen, thou hast made me wise; Veiled is the world, but all the soul awake, Purged by thine anger, clearer far than eyes.

Peep is the darkness; for my bride is hidden, Crown of my glory, guerdon of my song: Preod is the vision; thou art here unbidden, Mute and reproachful, since I did thee wrong.

Sweetest of wanderers, grievest thou for friends Tricked by a phantom, cheated to the grave? Woe worth the God, the mocking God, that sends Lies to the pious, furies to the brave.

Pardon our falsehood: thou wert far away, Gathering the lotus down the Egypt-water, Wifely and duteous, hearing not the fray, Taking no stain from all those years of slaughter:

Guiltless, yet mournful. Tell the poets truths; Tell them real beauty leadeth not to strife; Weep for the slain, those many blooming youths: Tears such as thine might bring them back to life.

Dear, gentle lady, if the web's unthreaded, Slander and fable fairly rent in twain, Then, by the days when thou wert loved and wedded, Give me, I pray, my bride's glad smile again.

The lord, who leads the Spartan host, Stands with a little maid, To greet a stranger from the coast Who comes to seek his aid.

What brings the guest? a disk of brass With curious lines engraven: What mean the lines? stream, road, and pass, Forest, and town, and haven.

"Lo, here Choaspes' lilied field: Lo, here the Hermian plain: What need we save the Doric shield To stop the Persian's reign?

Or shall barbarians drink their nil Upon the slopes of Tmolus? Or trowsered robbers spoil at will The bounties of Pactolus?

Salt lakes, burnt uplands, lie between; The distant king moves slow; He starts, ere Smyrna's vines are green, Comes, when their juices flow.

Waves bright with morning smoothe thy course, Swift row the Samian galleys; Unconquered Colophon sounds to horse Up the broad eastern valleys.

Is not Apollo's call enough, The god of every Greek? Then take our gold, and household stuff; Claim what thou wilt, but speak."

He falters; for the waves he fears, The roads he cannot measure; But rates full high the gleam of spears And dreams of yellow treasure.

He listens; he is yielding now; Outspoke the fearless child:

"Oh, father, come away, lest thou Be by this man beguiled." Her lowly judgement barred the plea, So low, it could not reach her.

The man knows more of land and sea, But she's the truer teacher. I mind the day, when thou didst cheat Those rival dames with answer meet;

When, toiling at the loom, Unblest with bracelet, ring, or chain, Thou alone didst dare disdain To toil in tiring-room.

Merely thou saidst: "At set of sun My humble taskwork will be done; And through the twilight street Come back to view my jewels, when Pattering through the throng of men Go merry schoolboys' feet."

CAIUS GRACCHUS

They came, and sneered: for thou didst stand! The web well finished up, one hand Laid on my yielding shoulder: The sternest stripling in the land Grasped the other, boldly scanned Their faces, and grew bolder:

And said: "Fair ladies, by your leave I would exhort you spin and weave Some frugal homely cloth. I warn you, when I lead the tribes Law shall strip you; threats nor bribes Shall blunt the just man's wrath."

How strongly, gravely did he speak! I shivered, hid my tingling cheek Behind thy marble face; And prayed the gods to be like him, Firm in temper, lithe of limb, Right worthy of our race.

Oh, mother, didst thou bear me brave? Or was I weak, till, from the grave So early hollowed out, Tiberius sought me yesternight, Blood upon his mantle white, A vision clear of doubt?

What can I fear, oh mother, now? His dead cold hand is on my brow; Rest thou thereon thy lips: His voice is in the night-wind's breath, "Do as I did," still he saith; With blood his finger drips.

ASTEROPE

Child of the summer cloud, upon thy birth,-- And thou art often born to die again,-- Follow loud groans, that shake the darkening earth, And break the troublous sleep of guilty men.

Thou leapest from the thinner streams of air To crags where vapours cling, where ocean frets; No cave so deep, so cold, but thou art there, Wrath in thy smile, and beauty in thy threats.

The molten sands beneath thy burning feet Run, as thou runnest, into tubes of glass; Old towers and trees, that proudly stood to meet The whirlwind, let their fair invader pass.

The lone ship warring on the Indian sea Bursts into splinters at thy sudden stroke; Siberian mines fired long ago by thee Still waste in helpless flame and barren smoke.

Such is thy dreadful pastime, Angel-queen, When swooping headlong from the Armament Thou spreadest fear along the village green, Fear of the day when gravestones shall be rent.

And we that fear remember not, that thou, Slewest the Theban maid, who vainly strove To rival Juno, when the lover's vow Was kept in wedlock by unwilling Jove.

And we forget, that when Oileus went From the wronged virgin and the ruined fane, When storms were howling round "Repent, Repent," Thy holy arrow pierced the spoiler's brain.

To perish all the proud! but chiefly he, Who at the tramp of steeds and cymbal-beat Proclaimed, "I thunder! Why not worship me?" And thou didst slay him for his counterfeit.

A DIRGE

Naiad, hid beneath the bank By the willowy river-side, Where Narcissus gently sank, Where unmarried Echo died, Unto thy serene repose Waft the stricken Anteros.

Where the tranquil swan is borne, Imaged in a watery glass, Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn Stoop to catch the boats that pass, Where the earliest orchis grows, Bury thou fair Anteros.

Glide we by, with prow and oar: Ripple shadows off the wave, And reflected on the shore, Haply play about the grave. Folds of summer-light enclose All that once was Anteros.

On a flickering wave we gaze, Not upon his answering eyes: Flower and bird we scarce can praise, Having lost his sweet replies: Cold and mute the river flows With our tears for Anteros.

AN INVOCATION

I never prayed for Dryads, to haunt the woods again; More welcome were the presence of hungering, thirst- ing men, Whose doubts we could unravel, whose hopes we could fulfil, Our wisdom tracing backward, the river to the rill; Were such beloved forerunners one summer day restored, Then, then we might discover the Muse's mystic hoard.

Oh dear divine Comatas, I would that thou and I Beneath this broken sunlight this leisure day might lie; Where trees from distant forests, whose names were strange to thee, Should bend their amorous branches within thy reach to be, And flowers thine Hellas knew not, which art hath made more fair, Should shed their shining petals upon thy fragrant hair.

Then thou shouldst calmly listen with ever-changing looks To songs of younger minstrels and plots of modern books, And wonder at the daring of poets later born, Whose thoughts are unto thy thoughts as noon-tide is to morn; And little shouldst thou grudge them their greater strength of soul, Thy partners in the torch-race, though nearer to the goal.

As when ancestoral portraits look gravely from the walls Uplift youthful baron who treads their echoing halls; And whilst he builds new turrets, the thrice ennobled heir Would gladly wake his grandsire his home and feast to share; So from AEgean laurels that hide thine ancient urn I fain would call thee hither, my sweeter lore to learn.

Or in thy cedarn prison thou waitest for the bee: Ah, leave that simple honey, and take thy food from me. My sun is stooping westward. Entranced dreamer, haste; There's fruitage in my garden, that I would have thee taste. Now lift the lid a moment; now, Dorian shepherd, speak: Two minds shall flow together, the English and the Greek.

ACADEMUS

Perhaps there's neither tear nor smile, When once beyond the grave. Woe's me: but let me live meanwhile Amongst the bright and brave;

My summers lapse away beneath Their cool Athenian shade: And I a string for myrtle-wreath, A whetstone unto blade;

I cheer the games I cannot play; As stands a crippled squire To watch his master through the fray, Uplifted by desire.

I roam, where little pleasures fall, As morn to morn succeeds, To melt, or ere the sweetness pall, Like glittering manna-beads.

The wishes dawning in the eyes, The softly murmured thanks; The zeal of those that miss the prize On clamorous river-banks;

The quenchless hope, the honest choice, The self-reliant pride, The music of the pleading voice That will not be denied;

The wonder flushing in the cheek, The questions many a score, When I grow eloquent, and speak Of England, and of war--

Oh, better than the world of dress And pompous dining, out, Better than simpering and finesse Is all this stir and rout.

I'll borrow life, and not grow old; And nightingales and trees Shall keep me, though the veins be cold, As young as Sophocles.

And when I may no longer live, They'll say, who know the truth, He gave whatever he had to give To freedom and to youth.

PROSPERO

Farewell, my airy pursuivants, farewell. We part to-day, and I resign This lonely island, and this rocky cell, And all that hath been mine.

"Ah, whither go we? Why not follow thee, Our human king, across the wave, The man that rescued us from rifted tree, Bleak marsh, and howling cave."

Oh no. The wand I wielded then is buried, Broken, and buried in the sand. Oh no. By mortal hands I must be ferried Unto the Tuscan strand.

You came to cheer my exile, and to lift The weight of silence off my lips: With you I ruled the clouds, and ocean-drift, Meteors, and wandering ships.

Your fancies glinting on my central mind Fell off in beams of many hues, Soft lambent light. Yet, severed from mankind, Not light, but heat, I lose.

I go, before my heart be chilled. Behold, The bark that bears me waves her flag, To chide my loitering. Back to your mountain-hold, And flee the tyrant hag.

Away. I hear your little voices sinking Into the wood-notes of the breeze: I hear you say: "Enough, enough of thinking; Love lies beyond the seas."

AMATURUS

Somewhere beneath the sun, These quivering heart-strings prove it, Somewhere there must be one Made for this soul, to move it;

Some one that hides her sweetness From neighbours whom she slights, Nor can attain completeness, Nor give her heart its rights;

Some one whom I could court With no great change of manner, Still holding reason's fort, Though waving fancy's banner;

A lady, not so queenly As to disdain my hand, Yet born to smile serenely Like those that rule the land;

Noble, but not too proud; With soft hair simply folded, And bright face crescent-browed, And throat by Muses moulded;

And eyelids lightly falling On little glistening seas, Deep-calm, when gales are brawling, Though stirred by every breeze:

Swift voice, like flight of dove Through minster arches floating, With sudden turns, when love Gets overnear to doting;

Keen lips, that shape soft sayings Like crystals of the snow, With pretty half-betrayings Of things one may not know;

Fair hand, whose touches thrill, Like golden rod of wonder, Which Hermes wields at will Spirit and flesh to sunder;

Light foot, to press the stirrup In fearlessness and glee, Or dance, till finches chirrup, And stars sink to the sea.

Forth, Love, and find this maid, Wherever she be hidden: Speak, Love, be not afraid, But plead as thou art bidden;

And say, that he who taught thee His yearning want and pain, Too dearly, dearly bought thee To part with thee in vain.

MORTEM, QUAE VIOLAT SUAVI A PELLIT AMOR

The plunging rocks, whose ravenous throats The sea in wrath and mockery fills, The smoke, that up the valley floats, The girlhood of the growing hills;

The thunderings from the miners' ledge, The wild assaults on nature's hoard, The peak, that stormward bares an edge Ground sharp in days when Titans warred;

Grim heights, by wandering clouds embraced Where lightning's ministers conspire, Grey glens, with tarn and streamlet laced, Stark forgeries of primeval fire;

These scenes may gladden many a mind Awhile from homelier thoughts released, And here my fellow-men may find A Sabbath and a vision-feast.

I bless them in the good they feel; And yet I bless them with a sigh: On me this grandeur stamps the seal Of tyrannous mortality.

The pitiless mountain stands so sure, The human breast so weakly heaves; That brains decay, while rocks endure, At this the insatiate spirit grieves.

But hither, oh ideal bride! For whom this heart in silence aches, Love is unwearied as the tide, Love is perennial as the lakes;

Come thou. The spiky crags will seem One harvest of one heavenly year, And fear of death, like childish dream, Will pass and flee, when thou art here.

TWO FRAGMENTS OF CHILDHOOD

When these locks were yellow as gold, When past days were easily told, Well I knew the voice of the sea, Once he spake as a friend to me.

Thunder-roarings carelessly heard, Once that poor little heart they stirred. Why, oh, why? Memory, Memory! She that I wished to be with was by.

Sick was I in those misanthrope days Of soft caresses, womanly ways; Once that maid on the stairs I met, Lip on brow she suddenly set.

Then flushed up my chivalrous blood Like Swiss streams in a midsummer flood. Then, oh, then, Imogen, Imogen! Hadst thou a lover, whose years were ten.

WAR MUSIC

One hour of my boyhood, one glimpse of the past, One beam of the dawn ere the heavens were o'ercast.

I came to a castle by royalty's grace, Forgot I was bashful, and feeble, and base. For stepping to music I dreamt of a siege, A vow to my mistress, a fight for my liege. The first sound of trumpets that fell on mine ear Set warriors around me and made me their peer. Meseemed we were arming, the bold for the fair, In joyous devotion and haughty despair: The warders were waiting to draw bolt and bar, The maidens attiring to gaze from afar:

I thought of the sally, but not the retreat, The cause was so glorious, the dying so sweet.

I live, I am old, I return to the ground: Blow trumpets, and still I can dream to the sound.

NUBENTI

Though the lark that upward flies Recks not of the opening skies, Nor discerneth grey from blue, Nor the rain-drop from the dew: Yet the tune which no man taught So can quicken human thought, That the startled fancies spring Faster far than voice or wing.

And the songstress as she floats Rising on her buoyant notes, Though she may the while refuse Homage to the nobler Muse, Though she cannot truly tell How her voice hath wrought the spell, Fills the listener's eyes with tears, Lifts him to the inner spheres.

Lark, thy morning song is done; Overhead the silent sun Bids thee pause. But he that heard Such a strain must bless the bird. Lady, thou hast hushed too soon Sounds that cheered my weary noon; Let met, warned by marriage bell, Whisper, Queen of Song, farewell.

WORDS FOR A PORTUGUESE AIR

They're sleeping beneath the roses; Oh, kiss them before they rise, And tickle their tiny noses, And sprinkle the dew on their eyes. Make haste, make haste; The fairies are caught; Make haste.

We'll put them in silver cages, And send them full-drest to court, And maids of honour and pages Shall turn the poor things to sport. Be quick, be quick; Be quicker than thought; Be quick.

Their scarfs shall be pennons for lancers, We'll tie up our flowers with their curls, Their plumes will make fans for dancers, Their tears shall be set with pearls. Be wise, be wise, Make the most of the prize; Be wise.

They'll scatter sweet scents by winking, With sparks from under their feet; They'll save us the trouble of thinking, Their voices will sound so sweet. Oh stay, oh stay! They're up and away; Oh stay!

ADRIENNE AND MAURICE

(Words For The Air Commonly Called "Pestal")

I.

Fly, poor soul, fly on, No early clouds shall stop thy roaming; Fly, till day be gone, Nor fold thy wings before the gloaming. He thou lov'st will soon be far beyond thy flight, Other lands to light, Leaving thee in night. Let no fear of loss thy heavenly pathway cross; Better then to lose than now.

II.

Now, faint heart, arise, And proudly feel that he regards thee; Draw from godlike eyes Some grace to last when love discards thee. Once thou hast been blest by one too high for thee; Fate will have him be Great and fancy-free, When some noble maid her hand in his hath laid, Give him up, poor heart, and break.

THE HALLOWING OF THE FLEET