Part 3
Softly the sails dropped down that sea of light Under the milky skies; all liquid gold The pure fire broken by the cleaving prows And whitening in their wake; as I watched them I thought all life went thus, man's voyaging heart, Over the loud, glad, golden ways of time. With oars taught by a song, to seek some joy, Some rapture, some warm isle in happy seas, Adventuring. A lure there is for us In far horizons, dreamed-of, misty lands. A voice that calls us. Yea, but look on love! She lay there who, but two nights past, had watched One burning ship drift over the sea's rim Into the dark. Was she not mine indeed, Now, whom mine arm had won? All mine! all mine! The long, bright braids of hair; the little breasts, Like cups of carven ivory; the smooth, Cool, marble whiteness; curves one knew by touch Only, too gradual for eyes: it seemed God's hands, there, had felt joy in them, and wrought Delighting: and the blue eyes, brimmed with light; And thee, my son, forged in the intense hour's flame And inmost heat of whiteness. Mine! all mine! All mine: and yet some shadow slipped from me, Some frail, soft, sweet, intangible delight Escaping from mine hands. So have I gone Over blue windless seas, bare of all life, And urged the labouring oars; but every dawn Showed still the same blue, stainless shield, whose boss Was our one ship, until it hushed our songs, That deep, vast, desolating blue of sky And tranquil waters. I had all of her But some few drops of joy she yielded not, They being hers to give or keep, a dew Distilled within her soul. Yea, I loved her! I think no love is peace, and we but break Against each other; and our hands are vain To grasp what is worth holding; and our sense Too coarse a net to snare what no speech saith, We go alone through all our days, alone Even when all is given! But him she loved; And dreamed upon his face, remembering.
Even so, I am glad! Yea, all my heart is glad I had her for mine own. I grasped the joy, The quick, warm, breathing life; and if the dream Fled from me, yet mine hands held priceless things, And dreams are winged to fly. They are poor fools Who deem the better love is a bowed heart And silent lips. If thou hadst beauty close, Because the white bird fluttered on thy breast, Wouldst loose it? Or would not a quicker pulse Beat in thine heart, and eager fingers close More firmly on the snowy, ruffled plumes, Till the thing yielded, panting? Will ye win? Then must ye dare. There is a lean saint stalled Somewhere among my scullions, in the stead: A half-drowned rat we haled from out the sea, Who says God saved him! He stakes his poor life, Having not strength enough to lift mine axe, Against a greater glory. Love to him Is as a golden net to snare his feet, And women perilous lures: he would keep them maids, Nor make one mother, but would rather see Life, which the gods made lovely, fade and die Ashen as winter woods, nor break again In all the foaming blossom of the spring, Whitening every field. He never knew The keen, sweet joy that smites through every sense Into the shuddering soul, and whelms the world In an immortal glory, while God builds Life beyond us, creating out of clay The world's imperishable dream, the hope, The wonder, the desire, that gives us sight Beyond our mortal doom. I have little wit; I only know that in the looms of time God's will moves like a shuttle to and fro. I have heard him in the waves, and on the wind; I have seen his splendour shine among the swords, Soften the eyes of women, light and smile On a child's lips; and know his presence there Where all the waves stream eagerly to lick The sunset's bloody splendours. Balder, the bright Beautiful Balder, whose eyes hold our hope, Who hath made love a light, and life a song, In all men's eyes, and on their lips, who hath sown The fields of heaven thick with golden fires, As men sow corn: and forges in this flame, Of life, with ringing blows, a strong man's soul As swords are fashioned, keen-edged, straight, and blue, How shall I die dispraising thee, whose praise Comes, laden with the blown scents of the spring, Opening dewy eyelids of bright buds, And brings the swallows? Thee I will not curse, Nor life, nor women, nor the fool himself Who blinks weak eyes, and calls the glory vain.
The sea is darkened now; and I can hear The long moan of the waves upon the shore. Some fret is on me! I would go again Over the gray fields of the restless sea, Among the vexed waves and the stinging spray. Nay, one drowns here in death; and why not there To wash about among the changing tides Under the changing moon? I would not rest Within a little earth. As Sigurd went, Send me; and she will watch me burning, drift Over the rim of Ocean, ere I sink Into the dark still deeps, where are ribbed wrecks And strong men dead. Lo! it is time to die, For the old glory fades out of the world And the swords rust in peace. Yea, I would go Now, for this death is but another sea To venture on; a strong man will win through And cast up somewhere on another shore With his old lust for fighting. All of life I have seen, and many cities of proud kings, And I have gotten gold, and wine, and fame, Among strange peoples, and white girls were mine To love a little while on drowsy nights, When a low, yellow moon lights up a land Full of ripe stooks. Now it is time to go, Regretting nothing. Gudrun, come to me! Come to me, Gudrun! Lean thy lovely face Over me once again. 'Tis wet with tears: We have grown close together. Weep no more; Let the old wonder light up in thine eyes; Death will be dark without it.
LES HEURES ISOLÉES FOR E.F.
_Tout homme à s'expliquer se diminue. On se doit son propre secret. Toute belle vie se compose d'heures isolées._ _HENRI DE RÉGNIER._
THE POOL
My soul is like a lake, whose waters glass Stars, and the silver clouds which uncontrolled Sail through the heavens, and the hills which fold Its valley in a peace, tall reeds, and grass, And all the wandering flights of birds, that pass Through the bright air; and, in itself, doth hold Naiads with smooth white limbs and hair of gold: So is my dreaming soul. And yet, alas! It holds but visions, unsubstantial things. Transient, momentary; and the feet Of winds that smite the waters, blur the whole. Shattering with the hurrying pulse of wings That crystal quiet, which hath grown so sweet With fragile reveries. Such is my soul.
NOON TO ANITA FOCKE
Charmed into silence lay The forest, dimly lit; No wind that summer day Moved the least leaf of it;
No choric branches stirred Its calm profound and deep, Nor voice of any bird, But silence dreamed like sleep.
Like dew upon the grass It fell upon my soul, Loosed it to soar, and pass Beyond the stars' control.
Vague memories it woke, Shapes far too frail for touch; And then the silence broke, Lest I should learn too much.
BEAUTY'S WISDOM
As light, as fragrance from her face, A beauty is distilled More deep and tranquil than Youth's grace, The love that is fulfilled.
Nor transient this: the touch of years But strengthens it with peace; She reaps the moments as the ears Are reaped, of Earth's increase.
THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD
I build of fair and fleeting things A little home for Love, In thickets where the linnet sings; My house is roofed above With aspen leaves, that never cease Their whispering, though winds have peace.
And when the Autumn comes, the roof Is shed in golden showers; So sing I this for thy behoof, Love passes with the flowers: Ruined our house with wind and rain Till Spring shall build it up again.
But though old age may dim our fire, This first close kiss will keep Sacred for us our old desire; And though the heavens weep, Its fragile memory will be All of our life for thee and me.
BUTTERFLIES
Fluttering, haphazard things, Delicate as flowers ye fly, Wandering on airy wings,
Creatures of a tranquil sky, Born for one brief, golden day, Dying ere the roses die.
Butterfly of colours gay Flutter in capricious flight, Hover in thy wanton play,
Gather honey of delight! Not such harvest as the bee Carries to his hive at night.
Night shall keep no place for thee, Death at dusk shall mock thy wings, So our poor souls seem to me
Fluttering, haphazard things.
THE SWALLOW
O swallow, thou art come at last! The rain is sweet upon the leaves Now Winter's wrath is overpast, A wreath of blossom April weaves.
Swift through the air thy light wings pass, Young willows droop their garlands green Over the tranquil pool, thy glass Where silver lilies float serene,
O songless bird! The cuckoo sings, Filling the valley with his voice; The larks, on their exultant wings, In the blue deep of skies rejoice.
There is more music in thy flight, Through sun or showers, swift and strong, A creature of the air and light Thou art, the very soul of song.
LIGHT
Hills that are bleak and bare Lit by the light of noon, Grow like a vision rare In radiance of the moon.
So have I seen thy face, Beautiful ever, lit By some informing grace Which all transfigured it.
LOVE'S HOUSE
Build for this little hour A house where Love may sleep, Some tranquil, fragrant bower.
A place where Grief may weep Build for a little while, In thine heart's hidden deep;
A place where Joy may smile To make the hours fly fast, And time and tears beguile.
Build not a house to last; Perishes every flower When Autumn once is past.
Build for this little hour.
FOREST MURMURS
Lyres of the woods, that awaken Longings and infinite tears, Memories stretching, forsaken, Hands through the mist of the years, Crowd through the branches that listen, Shining with tears of the skies, Dew-silvered branches that glisten, Pools where the radiance lies, Lighting a shadowy chamber With glory of magical dreams, Pearl, crystal, and wavering amber In arrowy gleams.
Myriad lyres! O voices Of Earth, and Ocean, and Air, The pulse of thy music rejoices With passion, the heart of despair; Singing, eternally singing. Ye are wasted with pain as with fire, But voyaging ever and winging, Arrayed in the wings of desire, Through the ocean of light to the portals Shining with silver that bar The house of the deathless immortals, Divine but afar.
THE CRYSTAL DREAMER
Sweet white mother of rose-white dreams, Through my windows the song of birds pours in And the sunlight on to my table streams.
As a clear globe prisons the golden light, So I prison the dreams you shed on me, Sweet white mother of dreams rose-white.
In a crystal globe I prison all things: Sound is frozen to silence there; Cover me over with wide white wings, Prison my life in thy crystal sphere, As a clear globe prisons the golden light, Sweet white mother of dreams rose-white.
SOLEIL COUCHANT
Love is but a wind that blows Over waves, or fields of corn, Floating petals, falling snows, The swift passing of the dawn.
These are all Love's signs, perchance, Floating, fragile, drifting things! Dead leaves are we in the dance, Moved by his unresting wings.
Love is light within thine eyes, Dearest! Love is all thy tears. Let us for this hour be wise: What have we to hope from years?
TOUT PASSE
Like foam and fire and frost The hours dissolve and go; Let not our time be lost.
Though the day seemeth slow, Its feet are shod with fire. Ceaseless the minutes flow.
Love, let us slake desire At Life's deep well. Alas! Full soon our Youth will tire
And we be mown like grass. Make of this hour the most, Ere on light wings it pass
Like foam and fire and frost.
LOVE ALONE TO RONALD GRAY
Breathe soft, my flute, to-night thy wonted melody Until, with careful hands, she lift the lattice-bars, Showing her face among the faces of the stars; Breathe soft, my flute, to-night till she come forth to me.
The choirs of birds are hushed within their bower of leaves, But thou must pierce the darkness and the gathered gloom, Climbing toward the lattice of her little room, Where the sweet vines have hung their garlands from the eaves.
Surely no cheating dream, nor sightless depth of sleep Will close her sense to music wrought for her delight; Bid her come forth, like Cynthia, into the night; Tell her, my flute, that here I sit alone and weep.
Fill the green orchard paths with music wrought of tears, With kisses hot, with love my lips have left unshed, Stretch hands for me through all this darkness to her bed, Touch her soft hair, and breathe my message in her ears.
_Lo! I have gifts for thee, gifts from Amyclae brought, Shoes for the feet I love, and shawls of scarlet wool, Come, my beloved! we shall sit beside the pool And watch within its glass the heavens star-inwrought._
_Sleep hath thy mother lapped in heavy shrouds of peace; Steal forth on silent feet, mine arms leap out for thee...._ Shy as the moon she comes and bends her face to me, Heavy with love to give my heart from love release.
LARK AND NIGHTINGALE
When light wells up from her secret springs And the stars are quenched in a purer fire, From the blue of the heavens a blithe bird sings Of the day's delight and the earth's desire. Heart of my being, reply, reply! So Love singeth Out of the deep of a dawning sky, A little moment is all he bringeth.
When silver rays into shadows swoon, A bird sings out of the calm of night To the wandering sail of the wasted moon And the stars that jewel the skies with light. Heart of my being, rejoice, rejoice! Night hath given To all thy yearnings one faultless voice, A prayer to trouble the peace of heaven.
REVENANTS DES ENFANTS
Softly, on little feet that make no sound, With laughter that one does not hear, they tread Upon the primroses that star the ground, Latticed by shade from branches overhead, Swaying in moonlight; but their footsteps make A twinkling like the raindrops on the lake.
The shy things that love silence and the night Are fearless at their coming; as they pass, Neither the nightingale nor owl take flight, So gentle is each footfall on the grass; They are a part of silence, and a part Of sweetness sprung from tears hid in the heart.
Their faces we may not caress, nor hear The little bodies that are soft as dreams; Their life is rounded by another sphere, They are as frail as shadows seen in streams: A ripple might efface them, but they keep Shadows of their existence in our sleep.
AD CINARAM
Sweet, though death may have thee utterly, Thou art with me: For when I sleep, mine ear Wakes for thy voice, to hear Thee; and I know at last that thou art near.
My soul then seems to put out hands, At thy commands, Through the thin veils of flesh That hold it in a mesh, For thy two hands to consecrate afresh.
Thoughts that all day are hidden deep Rise up in sleep: The reconciling night Holds thee for my delight, Beyond the senses or of sound or sight.
PAST
The wind is still And the night full of sighs. Hast thou drunk thy fill Of mine eyes?
Yea, of thine eyes; But my heart is a-thirst For what stirred first, Like a light in the skies
Like a light that flows Over barriers: It has come and it goes, Love full of tears.
SERENADE
Sleep, sleep, curtained round By dim-coloured tapestries, Wrought of dreams, nor let the sound Stir thee of my melodies. May sleep come to thee as slow And as soft as falling snow!
Stars set in their spheres Presage for thee all delight; Sleep fall soft as tears Of the stars the dews of night; All fair things about thee keep, Music that doth mix with sleep.
Dreams come, shining things, Through the curtains of thy bed; Doves fly with soft wings Round thy golden, drowsy head: Sleep, dream, dreaming smile, Curtained from the world awhile.
MEMORY
Sweet as the lutes of love, from fields of sleep Come murmurs of the rain; and reveries Haunt the green ways their tryst with eve to keep.
Slumberous music, fragile melodies, Move in the chiming leaves, like that loved pain, Which fills the heart with restless memories.
Chime of the leaves and murmur of the rain In mine own soul there are, and voices sweet, Which help me the lost moments to regain.
The hours dance round me on their slender feet With joys that pierce my heart, as keen as spears Remembered sorrows, pleasures that were fleet
To vanish, or dissolve in dew of tears: Seeing them thus, I cannot choose but weep. Surely in this wise God shall reap the years.
Sweet with the fruits of love, from fields of sleep.
L'AUBE
Yea, it is dawn, alas! Gray is the earth, and cold; Swift was our night to pass.
Thy hair is like fine gold, Over the pillows spread And on the sheet's white fold
The light falls on thine head And trembles in thine eyes From which the dreams have fled.
But they keep memories; Love burnt us up like grass: Surely Love never dies!
Yea, it is dawn, alas!
DEATH AND MEMORY
Death hath not slain thee all: when twilight spends Her liquid amber in the latest ebb Withdrawing, and the day in silence ends, Expectant of the stars, when through the web Of woven boughs fall glimmering silver spears, Our dreaming heart will stir, as if a light Caress had touched it, and fill up with tears, Remembering: nor only with the night Fall that sweet sadness, light in a dark place, Memory. Shrouded in her shrine of flesh, The soul sits brooding, veiled of form and face By Time, and in our mortal nature's mesh Trammelled, yet sometimes hears the sound of wings And sees, far off, divine, immortal things.
DEATH AND NATURE
When my poor bones are hearsed in quiet clay, And final sleep hath sealed my wondering eyes, The moon as now will sail through tranquil skies; The soft wind in the meadow-grasses play; And sacred Eve, with half-closed eyelids, dream; And Dawn, with rosy fingers, draw the veils Of silver from her shining face; and gales Sing loudly; and the rain from eaveshoots stream With bubbling music. Seek my soul in these; I am a part of them; and they will keep Perchance the music which I wrought with tears. When the moon shines above the silent trees Your eyes shall see me; and when soft as sleep Come murmurs of the rain, ah, bend your ears!
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_WORKS BY FREDERIC MANNING_
SCENES AND PORTRAITS _Crown 8vo. 6s._
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"Son imagination, sa curiosité amusée, son érudition lui donnent cette tournure d'esprit et cette originalité d'expression qui nous séduisent si particulièrement chez M. Remy de Gourmont." _Mercure de France._
"Since Mr. Arnold, there has been no such ironist in this country as the author of 'Scenes and Portraits.' Irony is not an English quality; and Mr. Manning's is distinctly not an English book. It is Latin in its intelligence, in its disregard of consequences, in its presentation of the pure idea. If Lucian, Landor, Renan, and Anatole France could have collaborated, the result would have been some such work as this."--_Edinburgh Review_, October 1909.
"They have a curious originality, and, though fantastic in the extreme, are always singularly alert and attractive. They will be welcomed because they contain much that is fresh and unexpected and stimulating."--_Observer._
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THE VIGIL OF BRUNHILD
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The name of Brunhild raises memories of tragedy, of her rivalry with the murderous Fredegonde, and of her cruel death by wild horses. But, though she is one of the greatest figures in early French history, she has never been celebrated, so far as is known, in English poetry; nor has she received the honour she deserves from her own countrymen.
In this poem the author refrains from any sensational description of her end. Brunhild is represented as giving an account of her life and of its high political aims in blank verse of a high standard, which is worthy of her romantic life and of her coloured history.
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IN THE EVENING
SOME OLD-AGE OBSERVATIONS. By CHARLES STEWART _With 2 Coloured Illustrations. Large crown 8vo. 6s. net_
A volume of observations and reflections from the point of view of a man of varied experience on miscellaneous topics, ranging from sport, political economy, and other practical matters to those deeper subjects which exercise the mind as active life draws to a close.
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SONGS OF MEMORY AND HOPE _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net_
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THE SAILING OF THE LONG-SHIPS AND OTHER POEMS _Small crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net_
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This is a selection from the Author's well-known volumes, "The Island Race" and "The Sailing of the Long-ships," with a longer poetical Epistle, addressed to Sir Francis Younghusband when in Thibet, and now reprinted for the first time. The whole collection deals with English School life, mainly in its imperial aspect; it is published by special request for the use of Clifton College, and will, it is hoped, commend itself to members of other Public Schools.
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THE YEAR OF TRAFALGAR
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