Part 7

God above Gods, High and Eternal King, To whom the spheral symphonies do sing, I find no whither from thy power to flee, Save in thy pinions vast o’ershadowing. Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

JOHN PAYNE.

FALSE SPRING.

O birds, ’twas not well done of you! O flowers and breeze, right well ye knew The weary glamour that the spring Had laid for me on every thing. ’Twas but to bring me back again The memory of the olden pain, You lured me out with songs of birds, With violet breath and fair false words!

For lo! my feet had hardly passed The woven band of flowerage, cast Betwixt the meadows and the trees, When, in the bird-songs and the breeze, Another strain was taken up; And out of every blue-bell’s cup The mocking voices sang again The olden songs of love and pain.

The flowers did mimic the old grace; The wan white windflowers wore her face; And in the stream I heard her words; Her voice came rippling from the birds. Dead love, I saw thy form anew Bend down among the violets blue, And, like a mist, the memory Of all the past came back to me.

JOHN PAYNE.

IN JUNE.

So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing, So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see; So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-going From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee.

So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes, The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere; So sweet the water’s song through reeds and rushes, The plover’s piping note, now here, now there.

So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of clover The west wind blowing, blowing up the hill; So sweet, so sweet with news of some one’s lover, Fleet footsteps, singing nearer, nearer still.

So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes; Now, plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear; And, water, hush your song through reeds and rushes, That I may know whose lover cometh near.

So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling, Plover or blackbird never heeding me; So loud the millstream too kept fretting, falling, O’er bar and bank in brawling, boisterous glee.

So loud, so loud; yet blackbird, thrush nor plover, Nor noisy millstream, in its fret and fall, Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover, My lover calling through the thrushes’ call.

“Come down, come down!” he called, and straight the thrushes From mate to mate sang all at once, “Come down!” And while the water laughed through reeds and rushes, The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, “Come down!”

Then down and off, and through the fields of clover, I followed, followed at my lover’s call; Listening no more to blackbird, thrush or plover, The water’s laugh, the millstream’s fret and fall.

NORA PERRY.

A SONG OF WINTER.

Barb’d blossom of the guarded gorse, I love thee where I see thee shine: Thou sweetener of our common ways, And brightener of our wintry days.

Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead, Thou art undying, oh, be mine! Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest Close on a heart that asks not rest.

I pluck thee, and thy stigma set Upon my breast and on my brow; Blow, buds, and ’plenish so my wreath That none may know the wounds beneath.

O crown of thorn that seem’st of gold, No festal coronal art thou; Thy honey’d blossoms are but hives That guard the growth of wingèd lives.

I saw thee in the time of flowers As sunshine spill’d upon the land, Or burning bushes all ablaze With sacred fire; but went my ways.

I went my ways, and as I went Pluck’d kindlier blooms on either hand; Now of those blooms so passing sweet None lives to stay my passing feet.

And still thy lamp upon the hill Feeds on the autumn’s dying sigh, And from thy midst comes murmuring A music sweeter than in spring.

Barb’d blossoms of the guarded gorse, Be mine to wear until I die, And mine the wounds of love which still Bear witness to his human will.

EMILY PFEIFFER.

TO A LOST LOVE.

I cannot look upon thy grave, Though there the rose is sweet: Better to hear the long wave wash These wastes about my feet!

Shall I take comfort? Dost thou live A spirit, though afar, With a deep hush about thee, like The stillness round a star?

Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphere Thou art a thing apart, Losing in saner happiness This madness of the heart.

And yet, at times, thou still shalt feel A passing breath, a pain; Disturb’d, as though a door in heaven Had sped and closed again.

And thou shalt shiver, while the hymns The solemn hymns, shall cease; A moment half remember me: Then turn away in peace.

But oh! forevermore thy look, Thy laugh, thy charm, thy tone, Thy sweet and wayward loveliness, Dear trivial things are gone!

Therefore I look not on thy grave, Though there the rose is sweet; But rather hear the loud wave wash These wastes about my feet.

STEPHEN PHILLIPS.

PRINCE OF PAINTERS, COME, I PRAY.

Prince of painters, come, I pray, Paint my love, for, though away, King of craftsmen, you can well Paint what I to thee can tell. First her hair you must indite Dark, but soft as summer night; Hast thou no contrivance whence To make it breathe its frankincense? Rising from her rounded cheek Let thy pencil duly speak, How below that purpling night Glows her forehead ivory-white. Mind you neither part nor join Those sweet eyebrows’ easy line; They must merge, you know, to be In separated unity. Painter draw, as lover bids, Now the dark line of the lids; Painter, now ’tis my desire, Make her glance from very fire, Make it as Athene’s blue, Like Cythera’s liquid too; Now to give her cheeks and nose, Milk must mingle with the rose; Her lips be like persuasion’s made, To call for kisses they persuade; And for her delicious chin, O’er and under and within, And round her soft neck’s Parian wall, Bid fly the graces, one and all. For the rest, enrobe my pet In her faint clear violet; But a little truth must show There is more that lies below, Hold! thou hast her--that is she. Hush! she ’s going to speak to me.

WILLIAM PHILPOT.

A LAGOON MESSAGE.

Not now, but later, when the road We tread together breaks apart, When thou, my dearest, distant art, And tedious days have swelled the load Upon my heart.

Or haply after that, when I Am sealed within an earthy bed, Resting and unrememberèd, This scene will speak and easily The whole be said.

Some eve, when from his burning chair The sun below Fusina slips, And all the sable poplar tips Wave in the warm vermilion air, The wind, the lips

Of the soft breeze with wayward touch Shall tell thee all I longed to own; And thou, on lurid lakes alone, Wilt say: “Poor soul, he loved me much; And he is gone.”

PERCY C. PINKERTON.

A CONQUEST.

I found him openly wearing her token; I knew that her troth could never be broken; I laid my hand on the hilt of my sword, He did the same, and he spoke no word; He faced me with his villainy; He laughed and said, “She gave it me.” We searched for seconds, they soon were found; They measured our swords; they measured the ground: They held to the deadly work too fast; They thought to gain our place at last. We fought in the sheen of a wintry wood, The fair white snow was red with his blood; But his was the victory, for, as he died, He swore by the rood that he had not lied.

WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK.

THE DEVOUT LOVER.

It is not mine to sing the stately grace, The great soul beaming in my lady’s face; To write no sounding odes to me is given Wherein her eyes outshine the stars in heaven.

Not mine in flowing melodies to tell The thousand beauties that I know so well; Not mine to serenade her ev’ry tress, And sit and sigh my love in idleness.

But mine it is to follow in her train, Do her behests in pleasure or in pain, Burn at her altar love’s sweet frankincense, And worship her in distant reverence.

WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK.

BALLADE OF LOVERS.

For the man was she made by the Eden tree, To be decked in soft raiment and worn on his sleeve, To be fondled so long as they both agree,-- A thing to take, or a thing to leave. But for her, let her live through one long summer eve-- Just the stars, and the moon, and the man, and she-- And her soul will escape her beyond reprieve, And, alas! the whole of her world is he.

To-morrow brings plenty as lovesome, maybe; If she break when he handles her, why should he grieve? She is only one pearl in a pearl-crowded sea,-- A thing to take, or a thing to leave. But she, though she knows he has kissed to deceive, And forsakes her, still only clings on at his knee-- When life has gone, what further loss can bereave? And, alas! the whole of her world is he.

For the man was she made upon Eden lea, To be helpmeet what time there is burden to heave, White-footed, to follow where he walks free,-- A thing to take, or a thing to leave; White-fingered, to weave and to interweave Her woof with his warp, and a tear two or three, Till clear his way out through her web he cleave, And, alas! the whole of her world is he.

ENVOI.

Did he own her no more when he called her Eve, Than a thing to take, or a thing to leave? A flower-filled plot that unlocks to his key-- But, alas! the whole of her world is he.

MAY PROBYN.

IN A GARDEN.

The cowslip glowed, the tulip burned, The grass was green as green could be; There, as in sweet content we turned, Beneath the budding linden-tree, We saw the westering sunbeams shake Large glory o’er the mountain lake.

The cushat cooed, the blackbird’s cry About the terrace garden rang; Still as we wooed, my love and I, The throstle still enraptured sang, And still the waters danced with glee, Beneath the budding linden-tree.

The tulips trembled still with flame, The cowslips gleamed along the walk, Yet, dear one, when the last word came, And silence only seemed to talk, We looked and found the lake was gone, Flowers dim, birds hushed, and one star shone.

Beloved! by many an up and down, O’er level lawns, unlevel ways, Through weeds and flowers, when birds had flown And when birds sang, have passed the days Since our new dawn forbade the night; But lo! o’erhead Love’s star is bright.

HARDWICK DRUMMOND RAWNSLEY.

A SONG FOR CANDLEMAS.

There’s never a rose upon the bush, And never a bud on any tree; In wood and field nor hint nor sign Of one green thing for you of me. Come in, come in, sweet love of mine, And let the bitter weather be.

Coated with ice the garden wall, The river reeds are stark and still; The wind goes plunging to the sea, And last week’s flakes the hollows fill. Come in, come in, sweet love, to me, And let the year blow as it will.

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE.

A DREAM OF DIANA.

In dream I saw Diana pass, Diana as of old, Across the green wood radiantly, attired in green and gold; With spear alert, with eyes afire, as they had seen the sun, And gave its glances back again, with brightness of their own. No human maid is she, I thought, who there so lightly fares Upon her sylvan empery, afar from our pale cares.

She passed, and left me to that thought, who felt the sadder then That only once, and not again, she might be seen of men; Though constantly, by lawn and wood, and hanging mountain-side, My restless eye might dare to hunt the huntress in her pride. Without her all was lonely grown; I had no liking left For fern or foxglove bloom, of her bright grace bereft.

And in that taking, in a bed of softest fern I lay, And found no joy of woodcraft left, the livelong summer day; When lo! at eve, a silvery horn, a questing hound, a cry, And swift, Diana came again, and sat her down thereby; And then I saw those radiant eyes were full of perfect rest, And found beneath the goddess there the woman’s softer breast.

ERNEST RHYS.

WHEN SHE COMES HOME.

When she comes home again! A thousand ways I fashion, to myself, the tenderness Of my glad welcome. I shall tremble--yes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart’s sweet distress. Then silence, and the perfume of her dress: The room will sway a little, and a haze Cloy eyesight--soul-sight, even--for a space: And tears--yes; and the ache here in the throat, To know that I so ill deserve the place Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face Again is hidden in the old embrace.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

POPLAR LEAVES.

The wind blows down the dusty street; And through my soul that grieves It brings a sudden odour sweet, A smell of poplar leaves.

O leaves that herald in the spring, O freshness young and pure, Into my weary soul you bring The vigour to endure.

The wood is near but out of sight, Where all the poplars grow; Straight up and tall and silver white, They quiver in a row.

My love is out of sight, but near; And through my soul that grieves A sudden memory wafts her here As fresh as poplar leaves.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

AFTER DEATH.

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say, “Poor child, poor child!” and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: He did not love me living; but once dead He pitied me; and very sweet it is To know he still is warm, though I am cold.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

SOMEWHERE OR OTHER.

Somewhere or other there must surely be The face not seen, the voice not heard, The heart that not yet--never yet--ah me! Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far; Past land and sea, clean out of sight; Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near; With just a wall, a hedge between; With just the last leaves of the dying year Fallen on a turf grown green.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED.

Peace in her chamber, wheresoe’er It be, a holy place: The thought still brings my soul such grace As morning meadows wear.

Whether it still be small and light, A maid’s who dreams alone, As from her orchard-gate the moon Its ceiling showed at night:

Or whether, in a shadow dense As nuptial hymns invoke, Innocent maidenhood awoke To married innocence:

Then still the thanks unheard await The unconscious gift bequeathed; For there my soul this hour has breathed An air inviolate.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

LOVE ENTHRONED.

I marked all kindred Powers the heart finds fair:-- Truth, with awed lips; and Hope, with eyes upcast; And Fame, whose loud wings fan the ashen Past To signal-fires, Oblivion’s flight to scare; And Youth, with still some single golden hair Unto his shoulder clinging, since the last Embrace wherein two sweet arms held him fast; And Life, still wreathing flowers for Death to wear.

Love’s throne was not with these; but far above All passionate wind of welcome and farewell He sat in breathless bowers they dream not of; Though Truth foreknow Love’s heart, and Hope foretell, And Fame be for Love’s sake desirable, And Youth be dear, and Life be sweet to Love.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

SUDDEN LIGHT.

I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,-- How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow’s soar Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall,--I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before? And shall not thus time’s eddying flight Still with our lives our loves restore In death’s despite, And day and night yield one delight once more?

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

A PERFECT DAY.

Bland air and leagues of immemorial blue; No subtlest hint of whitening rime or cold; A revel of rich colours, hue on hue, From radiant crimson to soft shades of gold.

A vagueness in the undulant hill line, The flutter of a bird’s south-soaring wing; Æolian harmonies in groves of pine, And glad brook laughter like the mirth of spring.

A sense of gracious calm afar and near, And yet a something wanting,--one fine ray For consummation. Love, were you but here, Then were the day indeed a perfect day.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

RUS IN URBE.

Poets are singing, the whole world over, Of May in melody, joys for June; Dusting their feet in the careless clover, And filling their hearts with the blackbird’s tune. The “brown bright nightingale” strikes with pity The sensitive heart of a count or clown; But where is the song for our leafy city, And where the rhymes for our lovely town?

“Oh for the Thames and its rippling reaches, Where almond rushes and breezes sport! Take me a walk under Burnham Beeches; Give me a dinner at Hampton Court!” Poets, be still, though your hearts I harden; We’ve flowers by day, and have scents at dark; The limes are in leaf in the cockney garden, And lilacs blossom in Regent’s Park.

“Come for a blow,” says a reckless fellow, Burn’d red and brown by passionate sun; “Come to the downs, where the gorse is yellow The season of kisses has just begun! Come to the fields where bluebells shiver, Hear cuckoo’s carol, or plaint of dove: Come for a row on the silent river; Come to the meadows and learn to love!”

Yes, I will come when this wealth is over Of softened colour and perfect tone: The lilac’s better than fields of clover; I’ll come when blossoming May has flown. When dust and dirt of a trampled city Have dragged the yellow laburnum down, I’ll take my holiday,--more’s the pity,-- And turn my back upon London town.

Margaret! am I so wrong to love it, This misty town that your face shines through? A crown of blossom is waved above it; But heart and life of the whirl--’tis you! Margaret! pearl! I have sought and found you; And though the paths of the wind are free, I’ll follow the ways of the world around you, And build my nest on the nearest tree.

CLEMENT SCOTT.

SONG.

Love in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me! Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme. What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me! Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!

What if he changeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me! Oh, can the waters be void of the wind? What if he wendeth afar and apart from me, What if he leave me to perish behind?

What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me! A flame i’ the dusk, a breath of Desire? Nay, my sweet Love is the heart and the soul of me, And I am the innermost heart of his fire!

Love in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me! Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme. What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me! Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!

WILLIAM SHARP.

THE COMING OF LOVE.

In and out the osier beds, all along the shallows, Lifts and laughs the soft south wind, or swoons among the grasses. But, ah! whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows? Who laughs so low and sweet? Who sighs--and passes?

Flower of my heart, my darling, why so slowly Lift’st thou thine eyes to mine, sweet wells of gladness? Too deep this new-found joy, and this new pain too holy; Or is there dread in thine heart of this divinest madness?

Who sighs with longing there? who laughs alow--and passes? Whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows? Who comes upon the wind that stirs the heavy seeding grasses In and out the osier beds, and hither through the shallows?

Flower of my heart, my Dream, who whispers near so gladly? Whose is the golden sunshine-net o’erspread for capture? Lift, lift thine eyes to mine, who love so wildly, madly-- Those eyes of brave desire, deep wells o’er-brimmed with rapture.

WILLIAM SHARP.

RECALL.

“Love me, or I am slain!” I cried, and meant Bitterly true each word. Nights, morns, slipped by, Moons, circling suns, yet still alive am I; But shame to me, if my best time be spent.

On this perverse, blind passion! Are we sent Upon a planet just to mate and die, A man no more than some pale butterfly That yields his day to nature’s sole intent?

Or is my life but Marguerite’s ox-eyed flower, That I should stand and pluck and fling away, One after one, the petal of each hour, Like a love-dreamy girl, and only say, “Loves me,” and “loves me not,” and “loves me”? Nay! Let the man’s mind awake to manhood’s power.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

FANTASIA.

We’re all alone, we’re all alone! The moon and stars are dead and gone; The night’s at deep, the wind asleep, And thou and I are all alone!

What care have we though life there be? Tumult and life are not for me! Silence and sleep about us creep; Tumult and life are not for thee!

How late it is since such as this Had topped the height of breathing bliss! And now we keep an iron sleep,-- In that grave thou, and I in this!

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

ONLY A LEAF.

When the late leaves lit all the place, He left her with her ashen face; “We shall not meet!” he lightly cried; “Good-bye, sweetheart, the world is wide.”

Though bright the sunshine on that day, Though the bare boughs around her lay, She thought in blackened shadow stood The melancholy autumn wood.

She bent, and lifted from the sod A leaf whereon his foot had trod,-- An idle leaf, but dead and sere, It held the heart’s blood of a year!

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

SONG FROM A DRAMA.

I know not if moonlight or starlight Be soft on the land or the sea,-- I catch but the near light, the far light, Of eyes that are burning for me; The scent of the night, of the roses, May burden the air for thee, sweet,-- ’Tis only the breath of thy sighing I know, as I lie at thy feet.

The winds may be sobbing or singing, Their touch may be fervent or cold, The night-bells may toll or be ringing,-- I care not, while thee I enfold! The feast may go on, and the music Be scattered in ecstasy round,-- Thy whisper, “I love thee! I love thee!” Hath flooded my soul with its sound.