Part 6

Nay, what if his footsteps slide By the swaying bridge of pine, And whirled seaward by the tide Is the loved form I counted mine! O night, dear night, that comest yet dost not come, How shall I wait the hour that brings my darling home?

LEWIS MORRIS.

THE FIRST LYRIC.

Love is enough: though the World be a waning And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over, Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter; The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

WILLIAM MORRIS.

THE CONCLUDING LYRIC.

Love is enough: ho, ye who seek saving, Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it, And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving; These know the Cup with the roses around it; These know the World’s wound and the balm that hath bound it: Cry out, the World heedeth not, “Love, lead us home!”

He leadeth, he hearkeneth, he cometh to you-ward; Set your faces as steel to the fears that assemble Round his goad for the faint, and his scourge for the froward: Lo, his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble! Lo, his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble! Cry out, for he heedeth, “O Love, lead us home.”

Oh, hearken the words of his voice of compassion: “Come cling round about me, ye faithful who sicken Of the weary unrest and the world’s passing fashion! As the rain in mid-morning your troubles shall thicken, But surely within you some Godhead doth quicken, As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home.

“Come--pain ye shall have, and be blind to the ending! Come--fear ye shall have, mid the sky’s over-casting! Come--change ye shall have, for far are ye wending! Come--no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fasting But the kissed lips of Love and fair life ever-lasting! Cry out, for one heedeth who leadeth you home!”

Is he gone? was he with us? ho, ye who seek saving, Go no further; come hither; for have we not found it? Here is the House of Fulfilment of Craving, Here is the Cup with the roses around it; The World’s wound well healed, and the balm that hath bound it: Cry out! for he heedeth, fair Love that led home.

WILLIAM MORRIS.

BESIDE A BIER.

I had never kissed her her whole life long,-- Now I stand by her bier, does she feel How with love that the waiting years made strong, I set on her lips my seal?

Will she wear my kiss in the grave’s long night, And wake sometimes with a thrill, From dreams of the old life’s missed delight, To feel that the grave is chill?

“It was warm,” will she say, “in that world above; It was warm, but I did not know How he loved me there, with his whole life’s love,-- It is cold down here below.”

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

HEREAFTER.

In after years a twilight ghost shall fill With shadowy presence all thy waiting room: From lips of air thou canst not kiss the bloom; Yet at old kisses will thy pulses thrill, And the old longing that thou couldst not kill, Feeling her presence in the gathering gloom, Will mock thee with the hopelessness of doom, While she stands there and smiles, serene and still.

Thou canst not vex her, then, with passion’s pain: Call, and the silence will thy call repeat; But she will smile there, with cold lips and sweet, Forgetful of old tortures, and the chain That once she wore, the tears she wept in vain, At passing from her threshold of thy feet.

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

FORTUNIO’S SONG.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALFRED DE MUSSET.

Comrades! in vain ye seek to learn For whom I burn; Not for a kingdom would I dare Her name declare.

But we will chant in chorus still,-- If so you will,-- That she I love is blonde and sweet, As blades of wheat.

Whate’er her wayward fancies ask Becomes my task; Should she my very life demand, ’Tis in her hand.

The pain of passion unrevealed Can scarce be healed: Such pain within my heart I bear, To my despair:

Nathless I love her all too well Her name to tell; And I would sooner die than e’er Her name declare.

GEORGE MURRAY.

SPLENDIDE MENDAX.

When God some day shall call my name And scorch me with a blaze of shame, Bringing to light my inmost thought And all the evil I have wrought,

Tearing away the veils I wove To hide my foulness from my love, And leaving my transgressions bare To the whole heaven’s clear, cold air--

When all the angels weep to see The branded outcast soul of me, One saint at least will hide her face,-- She will not look at my disgrace.

“At least, O God, O God Most High, He loved me truly!” she will cry, And God will pause before He send My soul to find its fitting end.

Then, lest heaven’s light should leave her face To think one loved her and was base, I will speak out at judgment day,-- “I never loved her!” I will say.

E. NESBIT.

THE KISS.

The snow is white on wood and wold, The wind is in the firs, So dead my heart is with the cold, No pulse within it stirs, Even to see your face, my dear, Your face that was my sun; There is no spring this bitter year, And summer’s dreams are done.

The snakes that lie about my heart Are in their wintry sleep; Their fangs no more deal sting and smart, No more they curl and creep. Love with the summer ceased to be; The frost is firm and fast. God keep the summer far from me, And let the snakes’ sleep last!

Touch of your hand could not suffice To waken them once more; Nor could the sunshine of your eyes A ruined spring restore. But ah--your lips! You know the rest: The snows are summer rain, My eyes are wet, and in my breast The snakes’ fangs meet again.

E. NESBIT.

THE MILL.

The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round With drip and whir and plash, It keeps all green the grassy ground, The alder, beech, and ash. The ferns creep out mid mosses cool, Forget-me-nots are found Blue in the shadow by the pool-- And still the wheel goes round.

Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel, The foam is white like cream, The merry waters dance and reel Along the stony stream. The little garden of the mill, It is enchanted ground, I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still, And still the wheel goes round.

The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round, And life’s wheel too must go,-- But all their clamour has not drowned A voice I used to know. Her window’s blank. The garden’s bare As her chill new-made mound, But still my heart’s delight is there, And still the wheel goes round.

E. NESBIT.

A PASTORAL.

My love and I among the mountains strayed, When heaven and earth in summer heat were still, Aware anon that at our feet were laid, Within a sunny hollow of the hill, A long-haired shepherd lover and a maid.

They saw nor heard us, who a space above, With hands clasped close as hers were clasped in his, Marked how the gentle golden sunlight strove To play about their leaf-crowned curls, and kiss Their burnished slender limbs, half-barèd to his love.

But grave or pensive seemed the boy to grow, For while upon the grass unfingered lay The slim twin-pipes, he ever watched with slow Dream-laden looks the ridge that far away Surmounts the sleeping midsummer with snow.

These things we saw; moreover we could hear The girl’s soft voice of laughter, grown more bold With the utter noonday silence, sweet and clear: “Why dost thou think? By thinking one grows old. Wouldst thou for all the world be old, my dear?”

Here my love turned to me, but her eyes told Her thought with smiles before she spoke a word; And being quick their meaning to behold, I could not chuse but echo what we heard: “Sweetheart, wouldst thou for all the world be old?”

J. B. B. NICHOLS.

VIGILATE ITAQUE.

The restless years that come and go, The cruel years so swift and slow, Once in our lives perchance will show What they can give that we may know;

Too soon perchance, or else too late; We may look back or we may wait; The years are incompassionate, And who shall touch the robe of fate?

Once only; haply if we keep Watch with our lamps and do not sleep, Our eyes shall, when the night is deep, Behold the bridegroom’s face,--and weep.

Alas! for better far it were That Love were heedless of our prayer Than that his glory he should bare And show himself to our despair.

Better to wander till we die And never come the door anigh, Than weeping sore without to lie And get no answer to our cry.

O child! the night is cold and blind, The way is rough with rain and wind, Narrow and steep and hard to find; But I have found thee--love, be kind.

J. B. B. NICHOLS.

THE HORIZON.

Oh, would, oh, would that thou and I, Now this brief day of love is past, Could toward the sunset straightway fly, And fold our wearied wings at last There, where the sea-line meets the sky.

A sweet thing and a strange ’twould be Thus, thus to break our prison bars, And know that we at last were free As voiceful waves and silent stars,-- There, where the sky-line meets the sea.

But vain the longing! thou and I, As we have been must ever be, Yet thither, wind, oh, waft my sigh, There where the sky-line meets the sea,-- There where the sea-line meets the sky.

JAMES ASHCROFT NOBLE.

SHADOWS.

Azure of sky and silver of cloud In the deep dark water show, Amber of field and emerald of wood That were pictured long ago.

Here, as of old, the beauty above, And its shadow there below; Why was their message jubilant then, And their meaning now but woe?

Nay, not the same, O fool, as of yore! These be other leaves that grow, Other the harvests, other the waves; Other the breezes that blow.

Sameness in sooth, but difference too; And a simple change I know, Within beholder, without in scene, It may alter meaning so!

Shadow of her who looked down with me, In the depths so long ago-- Were all your archness glimmering there, Would the picture breathe but woe?

JOSEPH O’CONNOR.

A FAREWELL.

Hath any loved you well down there, Summer or winter through? Down there, have you found any fair Laid in the grave with you? Is death’s long kiss a richer kiss Than mine was wont to be? Or have you gone to some far bliss, And quite forgotten me?

What soft enamouring of sleep Hath you in some soft way? What charmed death holdeth you with deep Strange lure by night and day? A little space below the grass, Out of the sun and shade; But worlds away from me, alas! Down there where you are laid!

My bright hair’s waved and wasted gold, What is it now to thee Whether the rose-red life I hold Or white death holdeth me? Down there you love the grave’s own green, And evermore you rave Of some sweet seraph you have seen Or dreamed of in the grave.

There you shall lie as you have lain, Though in the world above Another live your life again, Loving again your love; Is it not sweet beneath the palm? Is not the warm day rife With some long mystic golden calm Better than love and life?

The broad quaint odorous leaves, like hands Weaving the fair day through, Weave sleep no burnished bird withstands, While death weaves sleep for you; And many a strange rich breathing sound Ravishes morn and noon; And in that place you must have found Death a delicious swoon.

Hold me no longer for a word I used to say or sing; Ah! long ago you must have heard So many a sweeter thing: For rich earth must have reached your heart, And turned the faith to flowers; And warm wind stolen, part by part, Your soul through faithless hours.

And many a soft seed must have won Soil of some yielding thought, To bring a bloom up to the sun That else had ne’er been brought; And doubtless many a passionate hue Hath made that place more fair, Making some passionate part of you Faithless to me down there.

ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY.

SONG.

Has summer come without the rose, Or left the bird behind? Is the blue changed above thee, O world! or am I blind? Will you change every flower that grows, Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee, Now says, I love thee not?

The skies seemed true above thee, The rose true on the tree; The bird seemed true the summer through, But all proved false to me. World, is there one good thing in you, Life, love, or death--or what? Since lips that sang, I love thee, Have said, I love thee not?

I think the sun’s kiss will scarce fall Into one flower’s gold cup; I think the bird will miss me, And give the summer up. O sweet place! desolate in tall Wild grass, have you forgot How her lips loved to kiss me Now that they kiss me not?

Be false or fair above me, Come back with any face, Summer! do I care what you do? You cannot change one place-- The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, The grave I make this spot-- Here, where she used to love me, Here, where she loves me not.

ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY.

SUPREME SUMMER.

O heart full of song in the sweet song-weather, A voice fills each bower, a wing shakes each tree, Come forth, O winged singer, on song’s fairest feather, And make a sweet fame of my love and of me.

The blithe world shall ever have fair loving leisure, And long is the summer for bird and for bee; But too short the summer and too keen the pleasure Of me kissing her and of her kissing me.

Songs shall not cease of the hills and the heather; Songs shall not fail of the land and the sea: But, O heart, if you sing not while we are together, What man shall remember my love or me?

Some million of summers hath been and not known her, Hath known and forgotten loves less fair than she; But one summer knew her, and grew glad to own her, And made her its flower, and gave her to me.

And she and I loving, on earth seem to sever Some part of the great blue from heaven each day: I know that the heaven and the earth are for ever, But that which we take shall with us pass away.

And that which she gives me shall be for no lover In any new love-time, the world’s lasting while; The world, when it looses, shall never recover The gold of her hair nor the sun of her smile.

A tree grows in heaven, where no season blanches Or stays the new fruit through the long golden clime; My love reaches up, takes a fruit from its branches, And gives it to me to be mine for all time.

What care I for other fruits, fed with new fire, Plucked down by new lovers in fair future line? The fruit that I have is the thing I desire, To live of and die of,--the sweet she makes mine.

And she and I loving, are king of one summer And queen of one summer to gather and glean: The world is for us what no fair future comer Shall find it or dream it could ever have been.

The earth, as we lie on its bosom, seems pressing A heart up to bear us and mix with our heart; The blue, as we wonder, drops down a great blessing That soothes us and fills us and makes the tears start.

The summer is full of strange hundredth-year flowers, That breathe all their lives the warm air of our love, And never shall know a love other than ours Till once more some phœnix-star flowers above.

The silver cloud passing is friend of our loving; The sea, never knowing this year from last year, Is thick with fair words, between roaring and soughing, For her and me only to gather and hear.

Yea, the life that we lead now is better and sweeter, I think, than shall be in the world by and bye; For those days, be they longer or fewer or fleeter, I will not exchange on the day that I die.

I shall die when the rose-tree about and above me Her red kissing mouth seems hath kissed summer through: I shall die on the day that she ceases to love me-- But that will not be till the day she dies too.

Then, fall on us, dead leaves of our dear roses, And ruins of summer fall on us erelong, And hide us away where our dead year reposes; Let all that we leave in the world be--a song.

And, O song that I sing now while we are together, Go, sing to some new year of women and men, How I and she loved in the long loving weather, And ask if they love on as we two loved then.

ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY.

AS ONE WOULD STAND WHO SAW A SUDDEN LIGHT.

As one would stand who saw a sudden light Flood down the world, and so encompass him, And in that world illumined Seraphim Brooded above and gladdened to his sight; So stand I in the flame of one great thought, That broadens to my soul from where she waits, Who, yesterday, drew wide the inner gates Of all my being to the hopes I sought. Her words come to me like a summer-song, Blown from the throat of some sweet nightingale; I stand within her light the whole day long, And think upon her till the white stars fail: I lift my head towards all that makes life wise, And see no farther than my lady’s eyes.

GILBERT PARKER.

DEPARTURE.

It was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have nought other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frighten’d eye, Upon your journey of so many days, Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; And so we sate, within the low sun’s rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well, To hear you such things speak, And I could tell What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, As a warm south-wind sombres a March grove. And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, And frighten’d eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you passed: ’Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

CADENCES.

MINOR.

I.

The ancient memories buried lie, And the olden fancies pass; The old sweet flower-thoughts wither and fly, And die as the April cowslips die That scatter the bloomy grass.

II.

All dead, my dear! And the flowers are dead, And the happy blossoming spring; The winter comes with its iron tread, The fields with the dying sun are red, And the birds have ceased to sing.

III.

I trace the steps on the wasted strand Of the vanished springtime’s feet: Withered and dead is our Fairyland, For Love and Death go hand in hand-- Go hand in hand, my sweet!

MAJOR.

I.

Oh, what shall be the burden of our rhyme, And what shall be our ditty when the blossom’s on the lime? Our lips have fed on winter and on weariness too long: We will hail the royal summer with a golden-footed song.

II.

O lady of my summer and my spring, We shall hear the blackbird whistle and the brown sweet throstle sing, And the low clear noise of waters running softly by our feet, When the sights and sounds of summer in the green clear fields are sweet.

III.

We shall see the roses blowing in the green, The pink-lipped roses kissing in the golden summer sheen; We shall see the fields flower thick with stars and bells of summer gold, And the poppies burn out red and sweet across the corn-crowned wold.

IV.

The time shall be for pleasure, not for pain; There shall come no ghost of grieving for the past betwixt us twain; But in the time of roses our lives shall grow together, And our love be as the love of gods in the blue Olympian weather.

JOHN PAYNE.

CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF LOVE.

I.

O most fair God, O Love both new and old, That wast before the flowers of morning blew, Before the glad sun in his mail of gold Leapt into light across the first day’s dew; That art the first and last of our delight, That in the blue day and the purple night Holdest the hearts of servant and of king, Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing, That in thy hand hast heaven’s golden key And hell beneath the shadow of thy wing, Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

II.

What thing rejects thy mastery? Who so bold But at thine altars in the dusk they sue? Even the straight pale goddess, silver-stoled, That kissed Endymion when the spring was new, To thee did homage in her own despite, When in the shadow of her wings of white She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring To where the Latmian boy lay slumbering, And in that kiss put off cold chastity. Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string, “Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”

III.

Master of men and gods, in every fold Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew The labouring earth, tranced with the winter’s cold, Lie hid--the quintessential charms that woo The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might Of the dead year, and draw them to the light. Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling; Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands fling Their spells of healing over land and sea, One shout of homage makes the welkin ring, “Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”

IV.

I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands hold Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue: Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled, And in thine eyes the royal heaven’s hue: But in thy lips’ clear colour, ruddy bright, The heart’s blood shines of many a hapless wight. Thou art not only fair and sweet as spring; Terror and beauty, fear and wondering Meet on thy brow, amazing all that see: All men do praise thee, ay, and everything; Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

V.

I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold The sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue, What while the noontide over hill and wold Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight Fills me with mingled gladness and affright. Thy visage haunts me in the wavering Of dreams, and in the dawn awakening, I feel thy radiance streaming full on me. Both fear and joy unto thy feet I bring; Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

ENVOY.