Part 6
Since all that now is over, And not at any cost can I recover The abdicated throne, the abandoned crown: I sit me at the heart of the vast town, To wear old love looks down to the dull look, Befitting love unthought on, or forsook.
1887.
WALES.
_To T. W. Rolleston._
Mother of holy fire! Mother of holy dew! Thy children of the mist, the moor, the mountain side, These change not from thine heart, these to thine heart allied: These, that rely on thee, as blossoms on the blue. O passionate, dark faces, melancholy's hue! O deep, gray eyes, so tragic with the fires they hide! Sweet Mother, in whose light these live! thou dost abide, Star of the West, pale to the world: these know thee true.
No alien hearts may know that magic, which acquaints Thy soul with splendid passion, a great fire of dreams; Thine heart with lovelier sorrow, than the wistful sea. Voices of Celtic singers and of Celtic Saints Live on the ancient air: their royal sunlight gleams On moorland Merioneth and on sacred Dee.
1890.
HARVEST.
_To Nowell Smith._
Not now the rejoicing face of summer glows In splendour to a blue and splendid sky: For now hath died each lingering wild rose Off tangled river banks: and autumn shows Fields of red corn, that on the downside lie Beneath a gentle mist, a golden haze. So shrouded, the red cornlands take an air Trembling with warm wind: sickle-girt, forth fare Harvesting hinds, with swift arms brown and bare; Revering well toil's venerable ways.
Most golden music is among the corn, Played by the winds wavering over it: A murmuring sound, as when against the morn, Orient upon calm seas, their noise is borne Innumerably rippling and sunlit. Most golden music is in either tide: And this of radiant corn, before it fall, Wills not that summer die unmusical, By no rich surge of murmurs glorified: Nay! the fields rock and rustle, sounding all Praise of the fruitful earth on every side.
Good, through the yellow fields to ponder long: Good, long to meditate the stilly sight. Afar shone down a brazen sunlight strong, Over the harvested hillside, along The laboured meadows, burning with great light: The air trembled with overflow of heat In the low valley, where no movement was Of soft-blown wind, ruffling the scytheless grass Thick-growing by the waters, cool and sweet: No swing of boughs; there were no airs to pass Caressing them: all winds failed, when all wheat,
All fair crops murmuring their soft acclaim, Fell, golden rank on golden rank, and lay Ruddily heaped along the earth: the flame Of delicate poppies, rich and frail, became Wan dying weed; convolvulus, astray Out from its hedgerows far into the field, In clinging coils of leaf and tender bloom, Shared with the stalks it clung and clasped, their doom. So went the work: so gave the ripened weald Its fruits and pleasant flowers; and made a room, Wherein fresh winds might wave a fresh year's yield.
1886.
TO CERTAIN FRIENDS.
I thank Eternal God, that you are mine, Who are His too: courageous and divine Must friendship be, through this great grace of God; And have Eternity for period.
1892
THE PETITION.
_To Selwyn Image._
Fair, gracious, daughter of those skies, Wherein nor star, nor angel, flies More radiant than thy royal beauty: To thee the Hours bring all they have Of rich, and wonderful, and brave: Yet do they but their natural duty.
Excelling all, thou cancellest Their praise, and art alone the best: Alone the theme of prayers and praises. Wilt thou not bow thee, and be kind, As lilies to a pleading wind, When fragrance the wan air amazes?
The holy angels of God's court With humble men still deign consort: For dear love's piteous sake discarding Their state and their celestial home, To company poor souls, that roam Sad and distraught, for lack of guarding.
Fair, gracious, daughter of the spheres! Be not more proud than those thy peers, Citizens of so high a city! Behold the captive of thy chains: Turn from thy palace to his pains, And keep thy prisoner by pity.
1892.
THE CLASSICS.
_To Ion Thynne._
Fain to know golden things, fain to grow wise, Fain to achieve the secret of fair souls: His thought, scarce other lore need solemnize, Whom Virgil calms, whom Sophocles controls:
Whose conscience Æschylus, a warrior voice, Enchaunted hath with majesties of doom: Whose melancholy mood can best rejoice, When Horace sings, and roses bower the tomb:
Who, following Caesar unto death, discerns What bitter cause was Rome's, to mourn that day: With austere Tacitus for master, learns The look of empire in its proud decay:
Whom dread Lucretius of the mighty line Hath awed, but not borne down: who loves the flame, That leaped within Catullus the divine, His glory, and his beauty, and his shame:
Who dreams with Plato and, transcending dreams, Mounts to the perfect City of true God: Who hails its marvellous and haunting gleams, Treading the steady air, as Plato trod:
Who with Thucydides pursues the way, Feeling the heart-beats of the ages gone: Till fall the clouds upon the Attic day, And Syracuse draw tears for Marathon:
To whom these golden things best give delight: The music of most sad Simonides; Propertius' ardent graces; and the might Of Pindar chaunting by the olive trees:
Livy, and Roman consuls purple swathed: Plutarch, and heroes of the ancient earth: And Aristophanes, whose laughter scathed The souls of fools, and pealed in lyric mirth:
Æolian rose-leaves blown from Sappho's isle; Secular glories of Lycean thought: Sallies of Lucian, bidding wisdom smile; Angers of Juvenal, divinely wrought:
Pleasant, and elegant, and garrulous, Pliny: crowned Marcus, wistful and still strong: Sicilian seas and their Theocritus, Pastoral singer of the last Greek song:
Herodotus, all simple and all wise: Demosthenes, a lightning flame of scorn: The surge of Cicero, that never dies: And Homer, grand against the ancient morn.
1890.
APRIL.
_To Richard Le Gallienne._
A pleasant heat breathes off the scented grass, From bright green blades, and shining daisies: Now give we joy, who sometime cried, Alas! Now set we forth our melodies, and sing Soft praises to the spring, Musical praises.
The flying winds are lovely with the sun: Now all in sweet and dainty fashion Goes life: for royal seasons are begun. Now each new day and each new promise add Fresh cause of being glad, With vernal passion.
Few leaves upon the branches dare the spring: But many buds are making ready, Trusting the sun, their perfect summer king. Likewise we put away our wintry cares: We hear but happy airs; Our hopes are steady.
Cold were the crystal rivers, bitter cold; And snows upon the iron mountains; And withering leaves upon the trodden mould. Hark to the crystal voices of the rills, Falling among the hills, From secret fountains!
Long not for June with roses: nor for nights Loud with tumultuary thunder: Those hours wax heavy with their fierce delights. But April is all bright, and gives us first, Before the roses burst, Her joy and wonder.
Clear lie the fields, and fade into blue air: Here, sweet concerted birds are singing Around this lawn of sweet grass, warm and fair. And holy music, through the waving trees, Comes gently down the breeze, Where bells are ringing.
1889.
A PROSELYTE.
Heart of magnificent desire: O equal of the lordly sun! Since thou hast cast on me thy fire, My cloistral peace, so hardly won, Breaks from its trance: One glance From thee hath all its joy undone.
Of lonely quiet was my dream; Day gliding into fellow day, With the mere motion of a stream: But now in vehement disarray Go time and thought, Distraught With passion kindled at thy ray.
Heart of tumultuary might, O greater than the mountain flame, That leaps upon the fearful night! On me thy devastation came, Sudden and swift; A gift Of joyous torment without name.
Thy spirit stings my spirit: thou Takest by storm and ecstasy The cloister of my soul. And now, With ardour that is agony, I do thy will; Yet still Hear voices of calm memory.
1894.
BEYOND.
All was for you: and you are dead. For, came there sorrow, came there splendour, You still were mine, and I yours only: Then on my breast lay down your head, Triumphant in its dear surrender: One were we then: though one, not lonely.
Oh, is it you are dead, Both! both dead, since we are asunder: You, sleeping: I, for ever walking Through the dark valley, hard and dry. At times I hear the mourning thunder: And voices, in the shadows, talking.
Dear, are there dreams among the dead: Or is it all a perfect slumber? But I must dream and dream to madness. Mine eyes are dark, now yours are fled: Yet see they sorrows without number, Waiting upon one perfect sadness.
So long, the melancholy vale! So full, these weary winds, of sorrow! So harsh, all things! For what counts pity? Still, as each twilight glimmers pale Upon the borders of each morrow, I near me to your sleeping city.
EXPERIENCE.
_To George Arthur Greene._
The burden of the long gone years: the weight, The lifeless weight, of miserable things Done long ago, not done with: the live stings Left by old joys, follies provoking fate, Showing their sad side, when it is too late: Dread burden, that remorseless knowledge brings To men, remorseful! But the burden clings: And that remorse declares that bitter state.
Wisdom of ages! Wisdom of old age! Written, and spoken of, and prophesied, The common record of humanity! Oh, vain! The springtime is our heritage First, and the sunlight on the flowing tide: Then, that old truth's confirming misery.
1889.
ESCAPE.
_To Charles Weekes._
She bared her spirit to her sorrow: On the circling hills the morrow Trembled, but it broke not forth: Winds blew from the snowy North.
_My soul! my sorrow! What wind bloweth, Knows the wayless way, it goeth? But before all else, we know Death's way is the way to go._
She knew no more than that: she only Knew, that she was left and lonely. Left? But she had loved! And lone? She had loved! But love had gone.
So out into the wintry weather Soul and sorrow fled together: On the moor day found her dead: Snow on hands, and heart, and head.
1888.
TRENTALS.
_To Charles Sayle._
Now these lovers twain be dead, And together buried: Masses only shall be said. Hush thee, weary melancholy! Music comes, more rich and holy: Through the aged church shall sound Words, by ancient prophets found; Burdens in an ancient tongue, By the fasting Mass-priest sung.
Gray, without, the autumn air: But pale candles here prepare, Pale as wasted golden hair. Let the quire with mourning descant Cry: _In pace requiescant!_ For they loved the things of God. Now, where solemn feet have trod, Sleep they well: and wait the end, Lover by lover, friend by friend.
1889.
THE RED WIND.
_To Dr. Todhunter._
Red Wind from out the East: Red Wind of blight and blood! Ah, when wilt thou have ceased Thy bitter, stormy flood?
Red Wind from over sea, Scourging our lonely land! What Angel loosened thee Out of his iron hand?
Red Wind! whose word of might Winged thee with wings of flame? O fire of mournful night, What is thy master's name?
Red Wind! who bade thee burn, Branding our hearts? Who bade Thee on and never turn, Till waste our souls were laid?
Red Wind! from out the West Pour winds of Paradise: Winds of eternal rest, That weary souls entice.
Wind of the East! Red Wind! Thou witherest the soft breath Of Paradise the kind: Red Wind of burning death!
O Red Wind! hear God's voice: Hear thou, and fall, and cease. Let Inisfail rejoice In her Hesperian peace.
1894.
SERTORIUS.
_To Basil Williams._
Beyond the straits of Hercules, Behold! the strange Hesperian seas, A glittering waste at break of dawn: High on the westward plunging prow, What dreams are on thy spirit now, Sertorius of the milk-white fawn?
Not sorrow, to have done with home! The mourning destinies of Rome Have exiled Rome's last hope with thee: Nor dost thou think on thy lost Spain. What stirs thee on the unknown main? What wilt thou from the virgin sea?
Hailed by the faithless voice of Spain, The lightning warrior come again, Where wilt thou seek the flash of swords, Voyaging toward the set of sun? Though Rome the splendid East hath won, Here thou wilt find no Roman lords.
No Tingis here lifts fortress walls; And here no Lusitania calls: What hath the barren sea to give? Yet high designs enchaunt thee still; The winds are loyal to thy will: Not yet art thou too tired, to live.
No trader thou, to northern isles, Whom mischief-making gold beguiles To sunless and unkindly coasts: What spirit pilots thee thus far From the tempestuous tides of war, Beyond the surging of the hosts?
Nay! this thy secret will must be. Over the visionary sea, Thy sails are set for perfect rest: Surely thy pure and holy fawn Hath whispered of an ancient lawn, Far hidden down the solemn West.
A gracious pleasaunce of calm things; There rose-leaves fall by rippling springs: And captains of the older time, Touched with mild light, or gently sleep, Or in the orchard shadows keep Old friendships of the golden prime.
The far seas brighten with gray gleams: O winds of morning! O fair dreams! Will not that land rise up at noon? There, casting Roman mail away, Age long to watch the falling day, And silvery sea, and silvern moon.
Dreams! for they slew thee: Dreams! they lured Thee down to death and doom assured: And we were proud to fall with thee. Now, shadows of the men we were, Westward indeed we voyage here, Unto the end of all the sea.
Woe! for the fatal, festal board: Woe! for the signal of the sword, The wine-cup dashed upon the ground: We are but sad, eternal ghosts, Passing far off from human coasts, To the wan land eternal bound.
1889.
SAINT COLUMBA.
_To Dr. Sigerson._
Dead is Columba: the world's arch Gleams with a lighting of strange fires. They flash and run, they leap and march, Signs of a Saint's fulfilled desires.
Live is Columba: golden crowned, Sceptred with Mary lilies, shod With angel flames, and girded round With white of snow, he goes to God.
No more the gray eyes long to see The oakwoods of their Inisfail; Where the white angels hovering be: And ah, the birds in every vale!
No more for him thy fierce winds blow, Iona of the angry sea! Gone, the white glories of thy snow, And white spray flying over thee!
Now, far from the gray sea, and far From sea-worn rocks and sea-birds' cries, Columba hails the morning star, That shines in never nighted skies.
High in the perfect Land of Morn, He listens to the chaunting air: The Land, where music is not born, For music is eternal there.
There, bent before the burning Throne, He lauds the Lover of the Gael: _Sweet Christ! Whom Patrick's children own: Glory be Thine from Inisfail!_
1894.
BELLS.
_To John Little._
From far away! from far away! But whence, you will not say: Melancholy bells, appealing chimes, Voices of lands and times!
Your toll, O melancholy bells! Over the valley swells: O touching chimes! your dying sighs Travel our tranquil skies.
But whence? And whither fade away Your echoes from our day? You take our hearts with gentle pain, Tremble, and pass again.
Could we lay hold upon your haunts, The birthplace of your chaunts: Were we in dreamland, deathland, then? We, sad and wondering men?
1887.
PRINTED AT THE CHISWICK PRESS
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