Part 3
Or set this man beside the Roman lords, To vote upon the fate of Catiline; Or in a battle of stout Roman swords, Where strength and virtue were one thing divine: Or bind him to the cross with Punic cords. Think you, this unknown and mysterious man Had played the Roman, with that wistful smile, Those looks not moulded on a Roman plan, But full of witcheries and secret guile? Think you, those lips had framed true Roman words, Whose very curves have something Sibylline?
Thou wouldst but laugh, were one to question thee: Laugh with malign, bright eyes, and curious joy. Thou'rt fallen in love with thine own mystery! And yet thou art no Sibyl, but a boy. What wondrous land within the unvoyaged sea Haunts then thy thoughts, thy memories, thy dreams? Nay! be my friend; and share with me thy past: If haply I may catch enchaunting gleams, Catch marvellous music, while our friendship last: Tell me thy visions: though their true home be Some land, that was a legend in old Troy.
1890.
THE ROMAN STAGE.
_To Hugh Orange._
A man of marble holds the throne, With looks composed and resolute: Till death, a prince whom princes own, Draws near to touch the marble mute.
_The play is over: good my friends!_ Murmur the pale lips: _your applause!_ With what a grace the actor ends: How loyal to dramatic laws!
A brooding beauty on his brow; Irony brooding over sin: The next imperial actor now Bids the satiric piece begin.
"TO WEEP IRISH."
_To the Rev. Dr. William Barry._
Long Irish melancholy of lament! Voice of the sorrow, that is on the sea: Voice of that ancient mourning music sent From Rama childless: the world wails in thee.
The sadness of all beauty at the heart, The appealing of all souls unto the skies, The longing locked in each man's breast apart, Weep in the melody of thine old cries.
Mother of tears! sweet Mother of sad sighs! All mourners of the world weep Irish, weep Ever with thee: while burdened time still runs, Sorrows reach God through thee, and ask for sleep.
And though thine own unsleeping sorrow yet Live to the end of burdened time, in pain: Still sing the song of sorrow! and forget The sorrow, in the solace, of the strain.
1893.
SUMMER STORM.
_To Harold Child._
The wind, hark! the wind in the angry woods: And low clouds purple the west: there broods Thunder, thunder; and rain will fall; Fresh fragrance cling to the wind from all Roses holding water wells, Laurels gleaming to the gusty air; Wilding mosses of the dells, Drenched hayfields, and dripping hedgerows fair.
The wind, hark! the wind dying again: The wind's voice matches the far-off main, In sighing cadences: Pan will wake, Pan in the forest, whose rich pipes make Music to the folding flowers, In the pure eve, where no hot spells are: Those be favourable hours Hymned by Pan beneath the shepherd star.
1887.
TO A TRAVELLER.
The mountains, and the lonely death at last Upon the lonely mountains: O strong friend! The wandering over, and the labour passed, Thou art indeed at rest: Earth gave thee of her best, That labour and this end.
Earth was thy mother, and her true son thou: Earth called thee to a knowledge of her ways, Upon the great hills, up the great streams: now Upon earth's kindly breast Thou art indeed at rest: Thou, and thine arduous days.
Fare thee well, O strong heart! The tranquil night Looks calmly on thee: and the sun pours down His glory over thee, O heart of might! Earth gives thee perfect rest: Earth, whom thy swift feet pressed: Earth, whom the vast stars crown.
1889.
IN MEMORY OF M. B.
Old age, that dwelt upon thy years With softest and with stateliest grace, Hath sealed thine eyes, hath closed thine ears, And stilled the sweetness of thy face.
That gentle and that gracious look Sleeps now, and wears a marble calm: Death took no more away, but took All cares away, and left the balm
Of pure repose and peacefulness Upon thy forehead touched by time: So shall I know thee, none the less Than earth unwintered, come the prime.
Gone, the white snows, the lingering leaves, That once endeared the wintry days: But the new bloom of spring receives The old love, and has an equal praise.
Fare then thee well! In Winchester, Sleep thy last fearless sleep serene. Friends fail me not; but kindlier Can no friend be, than thou hast been.
The city that we two loved best, No fairer place of sleep for thee: There lay thee down, and take thy rest, And this farewell of love from me.
1888
HAWTHORNE.
_To Walter Alison Phillips._
Ten years ago I heard; ten, have I loved; Thine haunting voice borne over the waste sea. Was it thy melancholy spirit moved Mine, with those gray dreams, that invested thee? Or was it, that thy beauty first reproved The imperfect fancies, that looked fair to me?
Thou hast both secrets: for to thee are known The fatal sorrows binding life and death: And thou hast found, on winds of passage blown, That music, which is sorrow's perfect breath: So, all thy beauty takes a solemn tone, And art, is all thy melancholy saith.
Now therefore is thy voice abroad for me, When through dark woodlands murmuring sounds make way: Thy voice, and voices of the sounding sea, Stir in the branches, as none other may: All pensive loneliness is full of thee, And each mysterious, each autumnal day.
Hesperian soul! Well hadst thou in the West Thine hermitage and meditative place: In mild, retiring fields thou wast at rest, Calmed by old winds, touched with aerial grace: Fields, whence old magic simples filled thy breast, And unforgotten fragrance balmed thy face.
1889
GLORIES.
_To Theodore Peters._
Roses from Paestan rosaries! More goodly red and white was she: Her red and white were harmonies, Not matched upon a Paestan tree.
Ivories blaunched in Alban air! She lies more purely blaunched than you: No Alban whiteness doth she wear, But death's perfection of that hue.
Nay! now the rivalry is done, Of red, and white, and whiter still: She hath a glory from that sun, Who falls not from Olympus hill.
1893.
LINES TO A LADY UPON HER THIRD BIRTHDAY.
Dear Cousin: to be three years old, Is to have found the Age of Gold: That Age foregone! that Age foretold! What wondrous names, then, wait thy choice, High sounding for thine helpless voice! I choose instead: and hail in thee A queen of lilied Arcady, Or lady of Hesperides: Or, if Utopia lie near these, Utopian thou, by right divine, On whom all stars of favour shine. Vainly the cold Lycean sage Withheld his praise from childhood's age; Denied thine happiness to thee; Nor as a little child would be! Man to the world he could present, Magnanimous, magnificent: Children, he knew not: for of thee Dreamed not his calm philosophy; Or Pythias was no Dorothy! Thou hast good right to laugh in scorn At us, of simple dreams forlorn: At us, whose disenchaunted eyes Imagination dare despise. Thou hast that freshness, early born, Which roses have; or billowy corn, Waving, and washed in dews of morn: And yet, no flower of woodlands wild, But overwhelming London's child! About thy sleep are heard the feet And turmoil of the sounding street: Thou hearest not! The land of dreams More closely lies, and clearlier gleams. Thou watchest, with thy grave eyes gray, Our world, with looks of far away: Eyes, that consent to look on things Unlike their own imaginings; And, looking, weave round all, they see, Charms of their own sweet sorcery. Thus very London thou dost change To wonderland, all fair and strange: The ugliness and uproar seem To soften, at a child's pure dream: And each poor dusty garden yields The fresh delight of cowslip fields. What is the secret, and the spell? Thou knowest: for thou hast it well. Wilt thou not pity us, and break Thy silent dreaming, for our sake? Wilt thou not teach us, how to make Worlds of delight from things of nought, Or fetched from faery land, and wrought With flowers and lovely imageries? Pity us! for such wisdom dies: Pity thyself! youth flies, youth flies. Thou comest to the desert plain, Where no dreams follow in thy train: They leave thee at the pleasaunce close; Lonely the haggard pathway goes. Thou wilt look back, and see them, deep In the fair glades, where thou didst keep Thy summer court, thy summer sleep: But thou wilt never see them more, Till death the golden dreams restore. Now, ere the hard, dull hours begin Their sad, destroying work within Thy childhood's delicate memory, Wilt thou not tell us, Dorothy? Nay! thou art in conspiracy With all those faeries, children styled, To keep the secret of the child. Ah! to be only three years old! That is indeed an Age of Gold: And, care not for mine idle fears! Thou need'st not lose it: the far years, Touching with love and gentle tears The treasures of thy memory, May mould them into poetry. Then, of those deep eyes, gray and grave, The world will be a willing slave: Then, all the dreams of dear dreamland Wait with their music at thine hand, And beauty come at thy command. But now, what counts the will of time? Enough, thou livest! And this rhyme, Unworthy of the Golden Age, Yet hails thee, in that heritage, Happy and fair: then, come what may, Thou hast the firstfruits of the day. Fair fall each morn to thee! And I, Despite all dark fates, Dorothy! Will prove me thine affectionate Cousin, and loyal Laureate.
1889
CELTIC SPEECH.
_To Dr. Douglas Hyde._
Never forgetful silence fall on thee, Nor younger voices overtake thee, Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee; Old music heard by Mona of the sea: And where with moving melodies there break thee Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee.
Like music lives, nor may that music die, Still in the far, fair Gaelic places: The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces, Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy: The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces, And wakes remembrance of great things gone by.
Like music by the desolate Land's End Mournful forgetfulness hath broken: No more words kindred to the winds are spoken, Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expend That strength, whereof the unalterable token Remains wild music, even to the world's end.
1887.
WAYS OF WAR.
_To John O'Leary._
A terrible and splendid trust Heartens the host of Inisfail: Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust, A lightning glory of the Gael.
Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers, And Tara the assembling place: But each sweet wind of Ireland bears The trump of battle on its race.
From Dursey Isle to Donegal, From Howth to Achill, the glad noise Rings: and the heirs of glory fall, Or victory crowns their fighting joys.
A dream! a dream! an ancient dream! Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail, Some weapons on some field must gleam, Some burning glory fire the Gael.
That field may lie beneath the sun, Fair for the treading of an host: That field in realms of thought be won, And armed minds do their uttermost:
Some way, to faithful Inisfail, Shall come the majesty and awe Of martial truth, that must prevail To lay on all the eternal law.
1893.
THE COMING OF WAR.
_To John Davidson._
Gather the people, for the battle breaks: From camping grounds above the valley, Gather the men-at-arms, and bid them rally: Because the morn, the battle, wakes. High throned above the mountains and the main, Triumphs the sun: far down, the pasture plain To trampling armour shakes.
This was the meaning of those plenteous years, Those unarmed years of peace unbroken: Flashing war crowns them! Now war's trump hath spoken This final glory in our ears. The old blood of our pastoral fathers now Riots about our heart, and through our brow: Their sons can have no fears.
This was our whispering and haunting dream, When cornfields flourished, red and golden: When vines hung purple, nor could be withholden The radiant outburst of their stream. Earth cried to us, that all her laboured store Was ours: that she had more to give, and more: For nothing, did we deem?
We give her back the glory of this hour. O sun and earth! O strength and beauty! We use you now, we thank you now: our duty We stand to do, mailed in your power. A little people of a favoured land, Helmed with the blessing of the morn we stand: Our life is at its flower.
Gather the people, let the battle break: An hundred peaceful years are over. Now march each man to battle, as a lover: For him, whom death shall overtake! Sleeping upon this field, about his gloom Voices shall pierce, to thrill his sacred tomb, Of pride for his great sake.
With melody about us: heart and feet Responding to one mighty measure; Glad with the splendour of an holy pleasure; Swayed, one and all, as wind sways wheat: Answering the sunlight with our eyes aglow; Serene, and proud, and passionate, we go Through airs of morning sweet.
Let no man dare to be disheartened now! We challenge death beyond denial. Against the host of death we make our trial: Lord God of Hosts! do thou, Who gavest us the fulness of thy sun On fields of peace, perfect war's work begun: Warriors, to thee we bow.
O life-blood of remembrance! Long ago This land upheld our ancient fathers: And for this land, their land, our land, now gathers One fellowship against the foe. The spears flash: be they as our mothers' eyes! The trump sounds: hearken to our fathers' cries! March we to battle so.
1889
IRELAND'S DEAD.
_To John O'Mahony._
Immemorial Holy Land! At thine hand, thy sons await Any fate: they understand Thee, the all compassionate.
Be it death for thee, they grieve Nought, to leave the fight aside: Thou their pride, they undeceive Death, by death unterrified.
Mother, dear and fair to us, Ever thus to be adored! Is thy sword grown timorous, Mother of misericord?
For thy dead is grief on thee? Can it be, thou dost repent, That they went, thy chivalry, Those sad ways magnificent?
What, and if their heart's blood flow? Gladly so, with love divine, Since not thine the overthrow, They thy fields incarnadine.
Hearts afire with one sweet flame, One loved name, thine host adores: Conquerors, they overcame Death, high Heaven's inheritors.
For their loyal love, nought less, Than the stress of death, sufficed: Now with Christ, in blessedness, Triumph they, imparadised.
Mother, with so dear blood stained! Freedom gained through love befall Thee, by thraldom unprofaned, Perfect and imperial!
Still the ancient voices ring: Faith they bring, and fear repel. Time shall tell thy triumphing, Victress and invincible!
1893.
HARMONIES.
_To Vincent O'Sullivan._
I.
Sweet music lingers From her harpstrings on her fingers, When they rest in mine: And her clear glances Help the music, whereto dances, Trembling with an hope divine, Every heart: and chiefly mine.
Could she discover All her heart to any lover, She who sways them all? Yet her hand trembles, Laid in mine: and scarce dissembles, That its music looks to fall Into mine, and Love end all.
1889
II.
The airs, that best belong, Upon the strings devoutly playing, Your heart devoutly praying: Now sound your passion, full and strong, Past all her fond gainsaying.
First, strangely sweet and low, Slowly her careless ears entrancing: Then set the music dancing, And wild notes flying to and fro; Like spirited sunbeams glancing.
The melodies will stir Spirits of love, that still attend her: That able are to bend her, By subtile arts transforming her; And all their wisdom fend her.
Last, loud and resolute, Ring out a triumph and a greeting! No call for sad entreating, For she will grant you all your suit, Her song your music meeting.
1889
THE LAST MUSIC.
_To Frederic Herbert Trench._
Calmly, breathe calmly all your music, maids! Breathe a calm music over my dead queen. All your lives long, you have nor heard, nor seen, Fairer than she, whose hair in sombre braids With beauty overshades Her brow, broad and serene.
Surely she hath lain so an hundred years: Peace is upon her, old as the world's heart. Breathe gently, music! Music done, depart: And leave me in her presence to my tears, With music in mine ears; For sorrow hath its art.
Music, more music, sad and slow! she lies Dead: and more beautiful, than early morn. Discrowned am I, and of her looks forlorn: Alone vain memories immortalize The way of her soft eyes, Her musical voice low-borne.
The balm of gracious death now laps her round, As once life gave her grace beyond her peers. Strange! that I loved this lady of the spheres, To sleep by her at last in common ground: When kindly sleep hath bound Mine eyes, and sealed mine ears.
Maidens! make a low music: merely make Silence a melody, no more. This day, She travels down a pale and lonely way: Now, for a gentle comfort, let her take Such music, for her sake, As mourning love can play.
Holy my queen lies in the arms of death: Music moves over her still face, and I Lean breathing love over her. She will lie In earth thus calmly, under the wind's breath: The twilight wind, that saith: _Rest! worthy found, to die._
1889
A DREAM OF YOUTH.
_To Lord Alfred Douglas._
With faces bright, as ruddy corn, Touched by the sunlight of the morn; With rippling hair; and gleaming eyes, Wherein a sea of passion lies; Hair waving back, and eyes that gleam With deep delight of dream on dream; With full lips, curving into song; With shapely limbs, upright and strong: The youths on holy service throng.
Vested in white, upon their brows Are wreaths fresh twined from dewy boughs And flowers they strow along the way, Still dewy from the birth of day. So, to each reverend altar come, They stand in adoration: some Swing up gold censers; till the air Is blue and sweet, with smoke of rare Spices, that fetched from Egypt were.
In voices of calm, choral tone, Praise they each God, with praise his own: As children of the Gods, is seen Their glad solemnity of mien: So fair a spirit of the skies Is in their going: and their eyes Look out upon the peopled earth, As theirs were some diviner birth: And clear and courtly is their mirth.
Lights of the labouring world, they seem: Or, to the tired, like some fresh stream. Their dignity of perfect youth Compels devotion, as doth truth: So right seems all, they do, they are. Old age looks wistful, from afar, To watch their beauty, as they go, Radiant and free, in ordered row; And fairer, in the watching, grow.
Fair though it be, to watch unclose The nestling glories of a rose, Depth on rich depth, soft fold on fold: Though fairer be it, to behold Stately and sceptral lilies break To beauty, and to sweetness wake: Yet fairer still, to see and sing, One fair thing is, one matchless thing: Youth, in its perfect blossoming.
The magic of a golden grace Brings fire and sweetness on each face: Till, from their passage, every heart Takes fire, and sweetness in the smart: Till virtue lives, for all who own Their majesty, in them alone: Till careless hearts, and idle, take Delight in living, for their sake; Worship their footsteps, and awake.
Beside the tremulous, blue sea, Clear at sunset, they love to be: And they are rarely sad, but then. For sorrow touches them, as men, Looking upon the calm of things, That pass, and wake rememberings Of holy and of ancient awe; The charm of immemorial Law: _What we see now, the great dead saw!_
Upon a morn of storm, a swan, Breasting the cold stream, cold and wan, Throws back his neck in snowy length Between his snowy wings of strength: Against him the swift river flows, The proudlier he against it goes, King of the waters! For his pride Bears him upon a mightier tide: May death not be by youth defied?
But the red sun is gone: and gleams Of delicate moonlight waken dreams, Dreams, and the mysteries of peace: Shall this fair darkness ever cease? Here is no drear, no fearful Power, But life grows fuller with each hour, Full of the silence, that is best: Earth lies, with soothed and quiet breast, Beneath the guardian stars, at rest.
At night, behold them! Where lights burn By moonlit olives, see them turn Full faces toward the sailing moon, Nigh lovelier than beneath high noon! Throw back their comely moulded throats, Whence music on the night wind floats! And through the fragrant hush of night Their lustrous eyes make darkness bright: Their laugh loads darkness with delight.
Almost the murmuring sea is still: Almost the world obeys their will. Such youth moves pity in stern Fates, And sure death wellnigh dominates: Their passion kindles such fair flame, As from divine Achilles came: A vehement ardour thrills their breasts, And beauty's benediction rests On earth, and on earth's goodliest guests.
The music of their sighing parts A silence: and their beating hearts Beat to a measure of despair: Ah! how the fire of youth is fair? Yet may not be for ever young! But night hath yielded; there hath sprung Morning upon the throne of night: Day comes, with solemnizing light: Consuming sorrows take to flight.
Magnificent in early bloom, Like Gods, they triumph over gloom: All things desirable are theirs, Of beauty and of wonder, heirs: Their cities, vassals are, which give Them thanks and praise, because they live: Strong, they are victors of dismay; Fair, they serve beauty every day; Young, the sun loves to light their way.
Where now is death? Where that gray land? Those fearless eyes, those white brows grand, That take full sunlight and sweet air With rapture true and debonair, These have not known the touch of death! The world hath winds: these forms have breath, But, should death come, should dear life set, Calm would each go: _Farewell! forget Me dead: live you serenely yet._
See them! The springing of the palm Is nought, beside their gracious calm: The rippling of cool waters dies To nought, before their clear replies: The smile, that heralds their bright thought, Brings down the splendid sun to nought. See them! They walk the earth in state: In right of perfect youth, held great: On whom the powers of nature wait.
No sceptre theirs, but they are kings: Their forms and words are royal things. Their simple friendship is a court, Whither the wise and great resort. No homage of the world, they claim: But in all places lives their fame. Sun, moon, and stars; the earth, the sea; Yea! all things, that of beauty be, Honour their true divinity.
1889
ROMANS.
_To Arthur Galton._
How shall I praise thee, Caesar? Thou art he, Through whom all Europe's greatness came to be And the world's central crime is thy swift death. And thou too, Cicero! the voice of Rome! The listening world is thy perpetual home: Earth's plain, thy floor; the embracing sky, thy dome. No greater things than these, great history saith: Caesarian sword, and Ciceronian breath.