Part 1

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Transcriber's note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

POEMS

by

FREDERIC MANNING

London John Murray, Albemarle Street, W. 1910

Printed by Hazell, Watson and Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

TO LLE. and RYLLIS WITH MY LOVE

"NOON" appeared originally in _The Atlantic Monthly_, "Canzone" in _The Spectator_, and "Kore" in _The English Review_. I am indebted to the Editors of these Reviews for permission to include them in this volume. F. M.

CONTENTS PAGE THESEUS AND HIPPOLYTA 1 LA TOUSSAINT 11 THE FOUNT 13 TRISTRAM 14 THE SOUL OF MAN 16 THE VENTURERS 18 AFTER NIGHT 20 APRIL DANCE-SONG 25 SONG OF THE SOUL 27 A. C. S 29 TO A BUSH-BABY 31 CANZONE 33 EROS GLITTERING 36 KORE 38 STILL LIFE 40 BLODEUWEDD 41 HELGI OF LITHEND 44

LES HEURES ISOLÉES: THE POOL 70 NOON 71 BEAUTY'S WISDOM 72 THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD 73 BUTTERFLIES 74 THE SWALLOW 75 LIGHT 76 LOVE'S HOUSE 77 FOREST MURMURS 78 THE CRYSTAL DREAMER 80 SOLEIL COUCHANT 81 TOUT PASSE 82 LOVE ALONE 83 LARK AND NIGHTINGALE 86 REVENANTS DES ENFANTS 87 AD CINARAM 89 PAST 90 SERENADE 91 MEMORY 92 L'AUBE 94 DEATH AND MEMORY 95 DEATH AND NATURE 96

THESEUS AND HIPPOLYTA TO J. G. FAIRFAX

Noon smote down on the field, Burning on spears and helms, Shining from Theseus' shield. As a wave of the sea that whelms A rock, and its crest uprears, Through the wreck of the trampled wheat The charge of the charioteers Thundering broke. A sleet Veiled light, and the air was alive, As with hissing of snakes, as with swarms Of the Spring by a populous hive, As with wind, and the clamour of storms: So hurtled the arrowy hail Loosed from the Amazon ranks, Smote ringing on brazen mail, Struck fanged through the shuddering flanks Of the stallions; and half were hurled In the dust, and broken, and brayed By the chariots over them whirled, Which, eager and undismayed, Swept ruining on to the hordes Of the Amazonian camp, With the lightning of terrible swords; Till the dead were heaped, as a ramp For the quick. But the chariots shocked On the thicket of close-set spears; And the long ranks reeled, and rocked, Broke; and the charioteers Went through them, cleaving as ploughs Cleave earth: they were rent, and tossed With the tumult of tortured boughs. And the stallions, with foam embossed, Fought, tearing each other with teeth, In the red, blind rage of their lust, Screaming; and writhed underneath The wounded, trodden as must Of the grapes trodden out in the press, Empurpling the knees, and bare Thighs of the men. Through the stress Of their shoulders drove as a share, Hippolyta. Avenging she came; And they streamed, and they surged round her car, The women: her face was a flame As she rode through the tempest of war; And they cried, made glad with the sight, As those desiring the dawn, When the darkness is cloven by light, Cry for gladness: they rallied, upborne, When she rayed as the sun through their cloud. But she strung the bow, and she prayed Unto Artemis, calling aloud, As a maid might call to a maid; And the Goddess of shining brows Heard, as she paused from the chace Upon Tainaros hoary with snows; And a shadow darkened her face: A shadow, and then a ray Lightening, glorying, smiled, As her thought pierced years to a day Unborn, and an unborn child, With the pure fount of his praise Lifted to her, from the shrine Rock-hewn, at the three cross-ways In a waste of hills, as wine Gladdening her; and she shed A wonder, a terror, a fear, A beauty that filled with dread, A glory no eyes might bear On her maid; stooped, hushed, from the height Her thought, as a bird on the wing, Rained down from her, swifter than light. Hippolyta notched on the string An arrow, and loosed it, and smote, As he drove at her car with a jest, Agelaus, cleaving his throat Speechless; and smote through the breast Polytherses; and Euenor then Felt the teeth of the flints at his veins, As his mares dragged him back to his men All bloody, entangled in reins; Then Damastor she smote: and they fled As doves or as linnets fly When a hawk that has towered overhead Stoops, ravening, out of the sky On their quires. But her arrows sighed After them, swifter than feet: They ran, shrieked, stumbled, and died, Shot through with her shafts. In the wheat, With the sunlight gilding their greaves, Helmets, and shields, and mail, They lay, strewn thickly as leaves When Autumn has swung his flail. But afar, where Thermodon rolled The deep, swift strength of its flood To the ocean turbidly gold, Drave Theseus, eager for blood; And as herds stampede in affright At the reek of the beast in the air Precipitately through the night When a lion forth comes from his lair, So the women before him fled In a rout, headlong, overborne, For he drave as a beast all red, With the blood of the prey he had torn, Circled them round; they were rent, Whirled under him, flung from him, far Seaward, and lost; until spent, Heaped in a mound by her car Broken, and dying, and dead, Hippolyta saw. And she fled.

Theseus followed. Afar, Over the storm of the spears, He had seen her face as a star Shine; and no tremble of tears Softened her terrible eyes, Cruel they shone there, and blue With the beauty of windless skies. But her bowstring ever she drew, Loosening arrows that sang Through the air exulting as wind; And the clamour of battle rang Most by her car, while behind The fierce, wild women upheld Their queen, and their anger burned In staring eyeballs. She felled A man as her car overturned, Sped onward, her swift white feet The dead and the dying spurned Who lay in the wasted wheat. Theseus followed his prey As a lean hound follows the fleet Quarry: the dusty way Smoked with the speed of his feet. She was swift; but he burned in the chace: He was flame, he was sandalled with fire, Hungering after her face, With a fury, a lust, a desire, As a hound that whines for the blood Of the hart flying winged with fear; And she yearned, and she longed for the wood, Seeming far from her still, though near, And she strained, and she panted, and pressed, With her head flung backward for breath, And the quick sobs shaking her breast, Agonised, now, as by death, Fearing utterly, fighting with fate, Stumbling. And swifter behind, With a love made hot by his hate, Strained he pursuing. The wind, Lifted, and played with the fold Of her chlamys; and showed made bare The swift limbs shining, as gold From sunlight, and streamed through her hair As wind in a cresset of fire, As tresses of flame in the night, While she fled, desired, from desire, Till the brakes hid the flame from his sight.

Yea, but no long time he stood, As one who resigns the prize When a moment baffled. The wood Hid her indeed from his eyes, But the track of her feet lay clean As the slot of a deer in the grass. Slower he followed, and keen Were his downcast eyes. As a glass A wide lake gleamed in the ebb Of the latest tide of the light; Stars shone clear through the web Of the branches, beckoning night; The leaves fell softly, gilt With autumn, and tawny and red; And the blue of the skies lay spilt, Pooled, shining, from late rains shed; The tall reeds seemed to dream By the full lake's murmuring marge. She paused by a chiming stream, Listened awhile, hung her targe From a tree with her unstrung bow, Loosened her breast-plate and greaves, Bathing her limbs: and slow, Like a snake through the fallen leaves, Theseus crept on his prize, Paused, to gaze on her grace, The fine clean curve of the thighs, Pure brow, and well-chiselled face, Beautiful knees, and the play Of muscles, splendidly wrought. Theseus leapt on his prey.

Laughing softly, he sought Ease from desire as a flame: Struggled she still, and fought, Calling on Artemis' name, Who went, unheeding her prayer, Beyond Tainaros streaming with floods, Till the cries came faint through the air, Dwindling among the woods, For the numberless tongues of the leaves Echoed with myriad cries Low, and as plaintive as grieves The wood under darkening skies. The quick, sharp sobs from her breast Came thick, and she, to whom spears Hurtling close were a zest To battle, felt the hot tears Well and fall from her eyes, Struggled not long, lay still. Theseus stooped on his prize, Drank of her lips his fill.

LA TOUSSAINT

The wind wails overhead, With a grieving sore; And the little souls of the dead Beat on the door.

Crying: Light and a fire, We have travelled far Over the plowed fields' mire. Will ye lift the bar?

Would ye have us go all night On the windy ways, Who were strong men once in the light Of our own days?

Ours are the fields ye plow, And ye sow our wheat: Let us stretch our hands to the glow Of the warm, red peat.

We, who have lain in earth For a long dark year, Crave for our own old hearth, And ye will not hear.

THE FOUNT

O quiring voices of the sleepless springs, O night of beauty, calm and odorous, O bird of Thrace, that ever ceaseless sings The passion of thy music amorous,

My heart is but a spring that, with its prayer, Is choric through an April plenilune; My music but a rapture in the air, A nightingale loud-voiced in leafy June.

TRISTRAM

Ah, my heart! my heart! It is weary without her. I would that I were as the winds which play about her! For here I waste and I sicken, and nought is fair To mine eyes: nor night with stars in her clouded hair, Nor all the whitening ways of the stormy seas, Nor the leafy twilight trembling under the trees: But mine hands crave for her touch, mine eyes for her sight, My mouth for her mouth, mine ears for her footfalls light, And my soul would drink of her soul through every sense, Thirsting for her, as earth, in the heat intense, For the soft song and the gentle dropping of rain. But I sit here as a smouldering fire of pain, Lonely, here! And the wind in the forest grieves, And I hear my sorrow sobbing among the leaves.

THE SOUL OF MAN TO YNEZ STACKABLE

In the soul of man there are many voices, That silence wakens, and sound restrains: A song of love, that the soul rejoices, With windy music, and murmuring rains;

A song of light, when the dawn arises, And earth lies shining, and wet with dew; And life goes by, in a myriad guises, Under a heaven of stainless blue.

The willows, bending over the river, Where the water ripples between the reeds, Where the shadows sway, and the pale lights quiver On floating lily, and flowing weeds,

Have whispering voices, soft as showers Of April falling on upland lawns, On the nodding harebell, and pale wind-flowers, Through silver evens, and golden dawns.

But softer than love, and deeper than longing Are the sweet, frail voices of drifting ghosts; In the soul of man they are floating, thronging As wind-blown petals, pale, flickering hosts.

THE VENTURERS

Yea! even such as creep With eyes bent earthward, in the little space Between the dawn and waning of the day, Between a sleep and sleep: Even these, without a fixed abiding-place, Travel, though tardily, upon the way Labouring; while your lighter, swifter sail Soars, rising over sudden hills of foam, Exultant, through the storm; and, eager, flies Like a fleet swallow up to meet the gale, That drives with anger, through the heaven's dome, Clouds, like great silver galleons in a sea of skies.

For every man, and each, Is like a venture putting forth to sea, Voyaging into unknown ways to find Kindlier lands; and urges on to reach Kingdoms which there may be Hidden the grey gloom of the sea behind: Fabulous kingdoms piled with golden toil And the slow garnering of mortal dreams: Such as lured forth the splendid sails of Spain. So, journeying, we, in hope of that great spoil, Steer hardily through all conflicting streams Of Ocean, and count all the exultant battling gain.

AFTER NIGHT TO LILLIE

Lovely thou art, O Dawn! As a maiden, who wakes, Opening eyes on a world Filled with wonder and light, After a sleep of dreams. Issuing, clad in a robe Of blue, and silver, and green. From the tents of God in the east Comest thou; as a thought Slippeth into the mind Of a maid, awakened from sleep, By the swallows, under the eaves, Twittering to their young; As a flower awakens in Spring, After the sweet warm rains Pass away, and the sun Nourishes it; and slow The curving petals unclose. And a presence escapes from its heart, An odour remote, and vague, Trembling upon the air, A frail, mysterious ghost, That comes and goes on the wind, Like the inspiration of God.

Lovely thou art, O Dawn! Coming shy as a maid, At nightfall, to meet her love By the ricks of clover and hay. They speak not, but hands Meet hands, mouth mouth, and desire Broods like a God in the night, Under the yellow moon: They speak not, having all things.

Lovely thou art, O Dawn! Healing comes in thine hands, The wide sea laughs at thy birth, The multitudinous waves Ripple about thy feet, For joy at thy coming; the birds Shake the dew from the leaves, Shake the song from their throats; The full ewes call to the lambs; Lowing, the cattle come To drink at the reed-fringed pool, Bending, they drink, and lift Dripping muzzles, to gaze With patient, satisfied eyes Over the plenteous earth. While slowly out of the fens, And heavy plough-lands the mist Rises to greet thee, and spires Of thin blue smoke, that ascend Trembling into the calm Windless air, and float From the habitations of man.

Man, too, cometh forth; but he Scarcely regards thee: with eyes Bent to the earth he comes, Busy with cares of toil, Plotting to gain him ease, Meat, drink, and warmth for his age: Plotting in vain! He goes Out of the ways of life, Utterly frustrate, and spent. Gone, who was king of thy fields! Gone, who was lord of thy flocks! Like a dream. And his children forget, Even they, too, that he was. They turn to their toil, and eat, Sleep, drink, as of old he did, Spinning the woof and the warp Of life, on the Looms of Stone Which the Fates rule, and God.

Yea, we are labourers all; Even as bees for man Gather the honey from flowers, So do we labour for God Unwittingly. Yea, and the days Bringeth to each his reward, A final sleep and a peace. Swiftly they pass, the days, Winged with flame are their feet, Devouring us and our kin, As flame the stubble consumes. But the grain is garnered, perchance, In the great, wide barns of God, Laid up in a golden heap, As a wise king's treasury is Heaped with the yellow gold.

Lovely thou art, O Dawn! Creating, out of the dark, This bright, and beautiful world Again: and leading each day As a bride to man, whence he Begets him wonderful deeds. And, surely, because thine hands Lead us at last to peace, Lovely thou art, O Dawn!

APRIL DANCE-SONG TO MISS DORA CURTIS

April with her fleet, sweet, Silver rain, and sun-rays, Cometh, and her feet beat Lightly, on the lawn. Softly, for her sake, break Flowering the wet boughs; By the brimming lake, wake Lilies every dawn.

Broken on the stream, gleam Rays, to drown where weeds wave; Shining with her dream, seem April's eyes bedewed. Shakes a silver chain, rain Chiming with her music; Life, that long hath lain slain Riseth up renewed.

Softly as a dove, Love Croons beneath the twilight; While the winds above move Softly through the night. Out of all the skies, dies Light, and only stars shine: Stars to me her wise eyes, And her face a light.

SONG OF THE SOUL

My life was woven long ago, Or ever this our earth was fair, With mingled threads of love and woe, Hate, tears, and laughter, hope, despair. Yea! it was made ere water was, Ere snow fell, or the bright dew shone Upon the tender blades of grass; It sate and dreamed its life alone.

Ere golden stars swam through the blue Of heaven, singing as they came, God wrought into it every hue, And gave it wings and feet of flame: A little thing of His own breath, A word that trembled into song, To fall through mists of life and death, A frail thing conquering the strong.

All things that in the heavens are, The silver-hornéd sailing moon, The golden fire of every star, Through seas of time shall slip and swoon, And be as if they had not been; But through the darkness of the night, Through silence of that peace serene, Lo! I shall fashion mine own light,

Remembering earth's shining streams And all the heavens' starry grace. Yea, dreaming once again the dreams, Which were the beauty of thy face.

A. C. S. _April 10th, 1909_

Ah! the golden mouth is stopped, That so sweet was with its song, Bright, and vehement as fire. Grieve we, as a star had dropped Out of Heaven's singing throng, For the lord of our desire.

Bring we blossoms, lilies bring, Such frail blooms as lured of old Proserpina from the Hours: All this April's lavishing, Flame of sudden crocus-gold, Sudden foam of starry flowers.

Spring hath slain the lord of Spring: He, whose song was fire and dew, Lieth in her lap, and slain By her, whom he loved to sing, As she came, with sandals blue, Through the shifting rays, and rain.

Ah! the golden mouth is stopped Whence the whole of April's song, All her sudden, wilful fire, All her stores of honey dropped. Yet about our ways they throng, Words he winged with his desire.

TO A BUSH-BABY

Little one, so soft and light, Haunting silent, darkened ways, In the shadow of the night, Thee I praise.

Such an elf as danced of old, Light as thistle-down or froth, By Titania's throne of gold, Little Moth.

What strange fate linked thee and me, In this world of hope and fears? Surely God hath sheltered thee From our tears.

Hands thou hast, and eyes that seem Troubled, by some pain obscure, As though life were but a dream, Nothing sure.

Is thy tiny spirit vext, As our own, by vague distress, Haunted, by our life's perplext Weariness?

Wondering, at all the strange Loveliness of lapsing days; Change that passeth into change, Rain or rays?

Little hands that cling to me, Helpless as mine own, and weak, What in this world's mystery Do we seek?

CANZONE TO DOROTHY SHAKESPEAR

Mine eyes have seen the veiled bride of the night, Before whose footsteps souls of men are blown, As are dead leaves, about the wind's swift feet. Wherefore great sorrow cometh through my song: A wind of grieving, through the branches wet, When all the alleys of the woods are lit With yellow leaves, and sere, and full of sighs.

Through the bare woods she came, and pools of light Were darkened at her coming; and a moan Broke from the shuddering boughs, and all the fleet Leaves whirled about her passage, with the throng Of her lamenting ghosts, who cried regret, And passed as softly as the bats that flit Down silent ways, beneath the clouded skies.

Wherefore I grieve, that no more in my sight Are mortal women lovely. I am grown Amorous of her lips with kisses sweet, For her deep eyes in their enchantment strong. Yea! I am wasted with my passion's fret: Restless, that my poor worship may not quit The pure light of her face, which made me wise.

Great peace she hath, and dreams for her delight, Wherewith she weaves upon the Looms of Stone, Choosing such colours as she deemeth meet, Gold, blue, and vermeil skeins; and there among Her spools of weaving threads, her dreams beget Life, from her nimble fingers and quick wit, Mirrored in mortal life, which fades and dies.

These are made whole and perfect in the bright Broideries of her hands, while by her throne Move unborn hours, which in her cave discrete She hideth, though her secret thoughts prolong Soft moments mortal hearts so soon forget, Bright, supple forms, with swift limbs strongly knit, Moving as light in dance as melodies.

Wherefore, though in the cold I wail my plight, And wander, through the hoary woods, alone, Hunted, and smitten of the wind and sleet, Among these rooted souls, I would not wrong The intense white flame of beauty mine eyes met, And married for a moment: in this pit My blinded soul feeds on her memories.

Go, thou, my song! Tell her, though weeping, yet Her face is mine: such joy have I in it I cannot shut the splendour from mine eyes.

EROS GLITTERING