Part 9

Who dared to pluck the sleeve of Hannibal, And hale him from the shades? Who bade the man, Indomitable of brain, return to plan A vast revenge and vowed? Wild clarions call; Dusk faces flame; the turreted brute-wall Moves, tramples, overwhelms; van clashes van; Roman, Numidian, Carthaginian; And griefs are here, unbowed, imperial. Who caught the world’s fierce tides? An English girl. Shy dreamer ’neath fledged elm and apple-bloom, With Livy or Polybius on her knee, Whose dreams were light as dew and pure as pearl,-- Yet poignant-witted; thew’d for thought; girl-groom Sped to her Lord across the Midland Sea.

FLOWERS FROM THE SOUTH OF FRANCE

Thanks spoken under rainy skies, And tossed by March winds of the North, And faint ere they can find your eyes, Pale thanks are mine and poor in worth,

Matched with your gift of dews and light, Quick heart-beats of the Southern spring, Provençal flowers, pearl-pure, blood-bright, Which heard the Mid-sea murmuring.

Listen! a lark in Irish air, A silver spray of ecstasy! O wind of March blow wide and bear This song of home as thanks for me.

Nay, but yourself find thanks more meet; Blossoms like these which drank the sky Strew in some shadowy alcove-seat, And lay your violin where they lie;

Leave them; but with the first star rise, And bring the bow, and poise at rest The enchanted wood. Ah, shrill sweet cries! A prisoned heart is in its breast.

TO HESTER

(_At the Piano_)

So ends your fingers’ fine intrigue! The netted guile! Nor yonder sat he In pump and frill who made the gigue, Your Neapolitan Scarlatti.

The twilight yields you to me; strange! My dainty sprite, a most rare vision! Well, is it not a wise exchange, Live maid for ghost of dead musician?

Yet gently let the shadows troop To darkness; lightly lie the dust on Damon and Chloe, hose and hoop, My bevy of the days Augustan.

What led my fancy down the track, Through century-silent, shadowy mazes? Perhaps that foolish bric-à-brac Your pseudo-classic shelf that graces.

Or haply something I divined, While on your face I stayed a dweller, Of that fair ancestress--unsigned-- It pleases you to name a Kneller;

And still your fingers ran the keys, Through quaint encounter, pretty wrangle Light laughter, interspace of ease, Fine turn, and softly-severed tangle,

Gigue, minuet, rondo, ritornelle-- Quaint jars with rose-leaf memories scented, Stored with glad sound, when life went well, Ere melancholy was invented,

When pleasure ran, a rippling tide, And Phillida with Phyllis carolled, Ere Werther yet for Lotte sighed, Or English maids adored Childe Harold;

Ere music shook the central heart, Or soared to spheral heights inhuman, Ere Titans stormed the heaven of art, Let by the hammer-welder, Schumann.

Ah, well, we sigh beneath the load, We sing our pain, our pride, our passion, And Weltschmerz is the modern mode, But sweet seventeen is still a fashion.

Let be a while the Infinite, Those chords with tremulous fervour laden, Where Chopin’s fire and dew unite-- I choose instead one mortal maiden.

Let sorrow rave, and sadness fret, And all our century’s ailments pester, I am not quite despairful yet-- There, at the keyboard, sits a Hester.

UNUTTERED

Song that is pent in me, Song that is aching, Ne’er to escape from me, Sleeping or waking,

Down aspic! the dust of me, Blown the world over A century hence Will envenom a lover.

His red lips grow vocal, His great word is new, And the world knows my secret, Is dreaming of you.

IMITATED FROM J. SOULARY’S “LE FOSSOYEUR”

For every child new-born God brings to birth A little grave-digger, deft at his trade, Who ’neath his master’s feet still voids the earth, There where one day the man’s dark plunge is made.

Do you know yours? Hideous perhaps is he, You shudder seeing the workman at his task; Such gracious looks commend who waits on me I yield whole-hearted, nor for quarter ask.

A child rose-white, sweet-lipped, my steps he presses On to the pit with coaxings and caresses, Lovelier assassin none could choose to have. Rogue, hast thou done? Let’s haste. The hour comes quick, Give with a kiss the last stroke of the pick, And gently lay me in my flowery grave.

IMITATED FROM GOETHE’S “GANYMEDE”

As with splendour of morning Around me thou flamest, O Spring time, my lover, With a thousand delights and desires; To my heart comes thronging The sacred sense Of thy glow everlasting, O infinite beauty!

Would I might seize thee In these my arms!

Ah! on thy bosom I lie sore yearning; Thy flowers, thy grasses, Press close to my heart; Fresh breeze of the morn Thy coolest the burning Thirst of my breast. With love the nightingale Calls to me from the misty valley!

I come, I am coming! Whither? Ah, whither? Upward! Upward the urge is! Lower the clouds come drifting, They stoop to the longing of love. For me! for me! Borne in the lap of you Upwards! Embracing, embraced! Upwards, even to the bosom Of thee all-loving, my Father!

WITH A COPY OF MY “POEMS”

My slender, wondering Nautilus, Sunk in the ooze--a thing how frail!-- Because you choose to have it thus Through wavering waters luminous Rises once more, sets up the sail;

It trembles to the sun, has fear Of life, that knew no fear of death: Ah! may kind Ariel, hovering near, Speed the toy onward with his breath!

PROLOGUE TO MAURICE GEROTHWOHL’S VERSION OF VIGNY’S “CHATTERTON”

(_March 1909_)

Not yet to life inured, the Muse’s son, Born to be lord of visions, Chatterton, A youth, nor yet the master of his dream, Poor, proud, o’erwrought, perplex’d in the extreme By poetry, his demon, and by love-- Powers of the deep below, the height above-- Ringed by a world with dreams and love at strife, Rejects in fiery spleen the gift of life.

Condemn, but pity! In the South, they say, Boys in their sportive mood affect a play; The brands aglow they fashion in a ring, Then in the ardent cirque a scorpion fling; Crouched motionless the creature lies, until Urged by the fire you see him throb and thrill, Whereon the laughter peals! Anon, he’ll shape Right on the flames his course to make escape, And backward draws o’erpowered. Fresh shouts of glee! Next round the circle curving timorously He seeks impossible exit; now, once more, Quailing, and in the centre as before, He shrinks despairing; lest, he knows his part, Turns on himself, grown bold, his poisoned dart, And on the instant dies. O then at height We hear the cries uproarious of delight! Doubtless the wretch on mortal crime was bent, Doubtless the boys were good and innocent.

Play not, O world of men, the savage boy, Make not the poet, quickener of earth’s joy, Your scorpion! Hardly once a hundred years Compact of spirit and fire and dew, appears He through whose song the spheral harmonies Vibrate in mortal hearing. Nay, be wise, For your own joy, and see he lacks not bread, If ye but wreathe the white brows of the dead, ’Tis ye yourselves are disinherited.

A SONG

When did such moons upheave? When were such pure dawns born? Yet fly morn into eve, Fly eve into morn.

Lily and iris blooms, Blooms of the orchard close, Pass--for she comes, she comes, Your sovereign, the rose.

Lark, that is heart of the height, Thrush, that is voice of the vale, Cease, it is nearing, the night Of the nightingale.

Hasten great noon that glows, Night, when the swift stars pale, Hasten noon of the rose, Night of the nightingale.

THE DROPS OF NECTAR. 1789

_Imitated from_ GOETHE’S “DIE NEKTARTROPFEN”

When Minerva, granting graces To her darling, her Prometheus, Brought a brimming bowl of nectar To the underworld from heaven To rejoice his race of mortals, And to quicken in their bosom Of all gracious arts the impulse, Fearing Jupiter should see her, With a rapid foot she hastened, And the golden bowl was shaken, And there fell some slender sprinklings On the verdurous plain below her.

Whereupon the bees grew busy With the same in eager sucking. Came the butterfly as eager Some small drop to gather also. Even the spider, the unshapely, Hither crept and sucked with gusto. Happy are they to have tasted, They and other delicate creatures, For they share henceforth with mortals Art, of all earth’s joys the fairest.

AMOR AS LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

_Imitated from_ GOETHE’S “AMOR ALS LANDSCHAFTSMALER”

On a point of rock I sat one morning, Gazed with fixèd eyes upon the vapour, Like a sheet of solid grey outspreading Did it cover all in plain and mountain.

By my side meanwhile a boy had placed him, And he spake. “Good friend, how can’st thou calmly Stare upon the void grey sheet before thee? Hast thou then for painting and for modelling All desire, it seemeth, lost for ever?”

On the child I looked, and thought in secret, “Would the little lad then play the Master?”

“If thou wouldst be ever sad and idle,” Spake the boy, “no thing of skill can follow. Look! I’ll paint you straight a little picture, Teach you how to paint a pretty picture.”

And thereon forth stretched he his forefinger, Which was rosy even as a rose blossom, To the ample canvas strained before him Set to work at sketching with his finger. There on high a glorious sun he painted, Which mine eyes with its effulgence dazzled, And the fringe of clouds he made it golden. Through the clouds he let press forth the sunbeams, Then the tree-tops delicate, light, he painted, Late refreshed and quickened. Over the hillrange Hill behind hill folded, for a background. Nor were waters wanting. There below them He the river limned, so true to Nature, That it seemed to sparkle in the sunbeams, That against its banks it seemed to murmur.

And there stood beside the river flowers, And their colours glowed upon the meadow, Gold and an enamel green and purple; As if all were emerald and carbuncle. Pure and clear above he limned the heaven, And the azure mountains far and further, So that I, new-born and all enraptured, Gazed on now the painter, now the picture.

“I have given thee proof, perhaps,” so spake he, “That this handicraft I’ve comprehended But the hardest part is yet to follow.”

Then and with his finger-tip he outlined, Using utmost care beside the thicket, At the point where from earth’s gleaming surface Was the sun cast back in all its radiance-- Outlined there the loveliest of maidens, Fair of form, now clad in richest raiment, Brown her hair and ’neath it cheeks the freshest And the cheeks were of the self-same colour As the pretty finger that had drawn them.

“O my boy,” I cried, “declare what master Did receive thee in his school as pupil, That so swiftly and so true to Nature Thou with skill beginn’st and well completest?”

But while yet I spake a breeze uprises. And behold, it sets astir the summits, Curleth every wave upon the river, Puffs the veil out of the charming maiden. And, what me the astonished, more astonished, Now the maiden’s foot is put in motion, She advances, and to the place draws nearer, Where I sit beside the cunning Master.

Now when all things, all things are in motion, Trees and river, flowers and veil outblowing, And the slender foot of her the fairest, Think you I upon my rock stayed seated, Speechless as a rock and as immobile?

THE WANDERER

_Imitated from_ GOETHE’S “DER WANDERER”

WANDERER

God’s grace be thine, young woman And his, the boy who sucks That breast of thine. Here let me on the craggy scar, In shade of the great elm, My knapsack fling from me And rest me by thy side.

WOMAN

What business urges thee Now in the heat of day Along this dusty path? Bringest thou some city merchandise Into the country round? Thou smilest, stranger, At this my question.

WANDERER

No city merchandise I bring, Cool now the evening grows, Show me the rills Whence thou dost drink, My good young woman.

WOMAN

Here, up the rocky path, Go onward. Through the shrubs The path runs by the cot Wherein I dwell, On to the rills From whence I drink.

WANDERER

Traces of ordering human hands Betwixt the underwood. These stones _thou_ hast not so disposed, Nature--thou rich dispensatress.

WOMAN

Yet further up.

WANDERER

With moss o’erlaid, an architrave! I recognize thee, plastic spirit, Thou hast impressed thy seal upon the stone.

WOMAN

Further yet, stranger.

WANDERER

Lo, an inscription whereupon I tread, But all illegible, Worn out by wayfarers are ye, Which should show forth your Master’s piety, Unto a thousand children’s children.

WOMAN

In wonder, stranger, dost thou gaze Upon these stones? Up yonder round my cot Are many such.

WANDERER

Up yonder?

WOMAN

Leftwards directly On through the underwood, Here!

WANDERER

Ye Muses! and ye Graces!

WOMAN

That is my cottage.

WANDERER

The fragments of a temple!

WOMAN

Here onwards on one side The rivulet flows From whence I drink.

WANDERER

Glowing, then hoverest Above thy sepulchre, Genius! Over thee Is tumbled in a heap Thy masterpiece, O thou undying one!

WOMAN

Wait till I bring the vessel That thou mayst drink.

WANDERER

Ivy hath clad around Thy slender form divine. How do ye upward strive From out the wreck, Twin columns! And thou, the solitary sister there, How do ye, With sombre moss upon your sacred heads, Gaze in majestic mourning down Upon these scattered fragments There at your feet, Your kith and kin! Where lie the shadows of the bramble bush, Concealed by wrack and earth, And the long grass wavers above. Nature dost then so hold in price Thy masterpiece’s masterpiece? Dost thou, regardless, shatter thus Thy sanctuary? Dost sow the thistles therein?

WOMAN

How the boy sleeps! Wouldst thou within the cottage rest, Stranger? Wouldst here Rather than ’neath the open heavens bide? Now it is cool. Here, take the boy. Let me go draw the water. Sleep, darling, sleep!

WANDERER

Sweet is thy rest. How, bathed in heavenly healthiness, Restful he breathes! Thou, born above the relics Of a most sacred past, Upon thee may its spirit rest. He whom it environeth Will in the consciousness of power divine Each day enjoy. Seedling so rich expand, The shining spring’s Resplendent ornament, In presence of thy fellows shine, And when the flower-sheathe fades and falls May from thy bosom rise The abounding fruit, And ripening, front the sun.

WOMAN

God bless him--and ever still he sleeps. Nought have I with this water clear Except a piece of bread to offer thee.

WANDERER

I give thee thanks. How gloriously all blooms around And groweth green!

WOMAN

My husband soon Home from the fields Returns. Stay, stay, O man, And eat with us thy evening bread.

WANDERER

Here do ye dwell?

WOMAN

There, between yonder walls, The cot. My father builded it Of brick, and of the wreckage stones. Here do we dwell. He gave me to a husbandman, And in our arms he died-- Sweetheart--and hast thou slept? How bright he is--and wants to play. My rogue!

WANDERER

O Nature! everlastingly conceiving. Each one thou bearest for the joy of life, All of thy babes thou hast endowed Lovingly with a heritage--a Name. High on the cornice doth the swallow build, Of what an ornament she hides All unaware. The caterpillar round the golden bough Spins her a winter quarters for her young. Thus dost thou patch in ’twixt the august Fragments of bygone time For needs of thine--for thy own needs A hut. O men-- Rejoicing over graves. Farewell, thou happy wife.

WOMAN

Thou wilt not stay?

WANDERER

God keep you safe And bless your boy.

WOMAN

A happy wayfaring!

WANDERER

Where doth the pathway lead me Over the mountain there?

WOMAN

To Cuma.

WANDERER

How far is it hence?

WOMAN

’Tis three good miles.

WANDERER

Farewell! O Nature! guide my way, The stranger’s travel-track Which over graves Of sacred times foregone I still pursue. Me to some covert guide, Sheltered against the north, And where from noontide’s glare A poplar grove protects. And when at eve I turn Home to the hut, Made golden with the sun’s last beam, Grant that such wife may welcome me, The boy upon her arm.

IMITATED FROM GOETHE’S “ALEXIS AND DORA”