Chapter 5

With little crimson feet, which with its store Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad Had stolen from the lofty sycamore At daybreak, when her amorous comrade had Flown off in search of berried juniper Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager

Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency So constant as this simple shepherd-boy For my poor lips, his joyous purity And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy A Dryad from her oath to Artemis; For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss;

His argent forehead, like a rising moon Over the dusky hills of meeting brows, Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse For Cytheræa, the first silky down Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and brown;

And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie, And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds Is in his homestead for the thievish fly To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed.

And yet I love him not; it was for thee I kept my love; I knew that thou would’st come To rid me of this pallid chastity, Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam Of all the wide Ægean, brightest star Of ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets are!

I knew that thou would’st come, for when at first The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of spring Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst To myriad multitudinous blossoming Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes’ rapturous tunes

Startled the squirrel from its granary, And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane, Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood, And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s maidenhood.

The trooping fawns at evening came and laid Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs, And on my topmost branch the blackbird made A little nest of grasses for his spouse, And now and then a twittering wren would light On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight.

I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting place, Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay, And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase The timorous girl, till tired out with play She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair, And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare.

Then come away unto my ambuscade Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify The dearest rites of love; there in the cool And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool,

The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s pasturage, For round its rim great creamy lilies float Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage, Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat Steered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was made

For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen, One arm around her boyish paramour, Strays often there at eve, and I have seen The moon strip off her misty vestiture For young Endymion’s eyes; be not afraid, The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.

Nay if thou will’st, back to the beating brine, Back to the boisterous billow let us go, And walk all day beneath the hyaline Huge vault of Neptune’s watery portico, And watch the purple monsters of the deep Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.

For if my mistress find me lying here She will not ruth or gentle pity show, But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere Relentless fingers string the cornel bow, And draw the feathered notch against her breast, And loose the archèd cord; aye, even now upon the quest

I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake, Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at least Let me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slake My parchèd being with the nectarous feast Which even gods affect! O come, Love, come, Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.’

Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air Grew conscious of a god, and the grey seas Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed, And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the glade.

And where the little flowers of her breast Just brake into their milky blossoming, This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest, Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering, And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart, And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her heart.

Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry On the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid, Sobbing for incomplete virginity, And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead, And all the pain of things unsatisfied, And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing side.

Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan, And very pitiful to see her die Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known The joy of passion, that dread mystery Which not to know is not to live at all, And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly thrall.

But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere, Who with Adonis all night long had lain Within some shepherd’s hut in Arcady, On team of silver doves and gilded wain Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,

And when low down she spied the hapless pair, And heard the Oread’s faint despairing cry, Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air As though it were a viol, hastily She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume, And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous doom.

For as a gardener turning back his head To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows With careless scythe too near some flower bed, And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose, And with the flower’s loosened loneliness Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness

Driving his little flock along the mead Treads down two daffodils, which side by aide Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede And made the gaudy moth forget its pride, Treads down their brimming golden chalices Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages;

Or as a schoolboy tired of his book Flings himself down upon the reedy grass And plucks two water-lilies from the brook, And for a time forgets the hour glass, Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way, And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these lovers lay.

And Venus cried, ‘It is dread Artemis Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty, Or else that mightier maid whose care it is To guard her strong and stainless majesty Upon the hill Athenian,—alas! That they who loved so well unloved into Death’s house should pass.’

So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl In the great golden waggon tenderly (Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl Just threaded with a blue vein’s tapestry Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest)

And then each pigeon spread its milky van, The bright car soared into the dawning sky, And like a cloud the aerial caravan Passed over the Ægean silently, Till the faint air was troubled with the song From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long.

But when the doves had reached their wonted goal Where the wide stair of orbèd marble dips Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul Just shook the trembling petals of her lips And passed into the void, and Venus knew That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,

And bade her servants carve a cedar chest With all the wonder of this history, Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky On the low hills of Paphos, and the Faun Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.

Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere The morning bee had stung the daffodil With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair The waking stag had leapt across the rill And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept.

And when day brake, within that silver shrine Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous, Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine That she whose beauty made Death amorous Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord, And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy ford.

III

IN melancholy moonless Acheron, Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor, Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,

There by a dim and dark Lethæan well Young Charmides was lying; wearily He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel, And with its little rifled treasury Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream, And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,

When as he gazed into the watery glass And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass Across the mirror, and a little hand Stole into his, and warm lips timidly Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh.

Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw, And ever nigher still their faces came, And nigher ever did their young mouths draw Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame, And longing arms around her neck he cast, And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast,

And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss, And all her maidenhood was his to slay, And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay To pipe again of love, too venturous reed! Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.

Too venturous poesy, O why essay To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill, Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!

Enough, enough that he whose life had been A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame, Could in the loveless land of Hades glean One scorching harvest from those fields of flame Where passion walks with naked unshod feet And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet

In that wild throb when all existences Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.

FLOWERS OF GOLD

IMPRESSIONS

I LES SILHOUETTES

THE sea is flecked with bars of grey, The dull dead wind is out of tune, And like a withered leaf the moon Is blown across the stormy bay.

Etched clear upon the pallid sand Lies the black boat: a sailor boy Clambers aboard in careless joy With laughing face and gleaming hand.

And overhead the curlews cry, Where through the dusky upland grass The young brown-throated reapers pass, Like silhouettes against the sky.

II LA FUITE DE LA LUNE

TO outer senses there is peace, A dreamy peace on either hand Deep silence in the shadowy land, Deep silence where the shadows cease.

Save for a cry that echoes shrill From some lone bird disconsolate; A corncrake calling to its mate; The answer from the misty hill.

And suddenly the moon withdraws Her sickle from the lightening skies, And to her sombre cavern flies, Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.

THE GRAVE OF KEATS

RID of the world’s injustice, and his pain, He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue: Taken from life when life and love were new The youngest of the martyrs here is lain, Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain. No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew, But gentle violets weeping with the dew Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain. O proudest heart that broke for misery! O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene! O poet-painter of our English Land! Thy name was writ in water—it shall stand: And tears like mine will keep thy memory green, As Isabella did her Basil-tree.

ROME.

THEOCRITUS

A VILLANELLE

O SINGER of Persephone! In the dim meadows desolate Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still through the ivy flits the bee Where Amaryllis lies in state; O Singer of Persephone!

Simætha calls on Hecate And hears the wild dogs at the gate; Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still by the light and laughing sea Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate; O Singer of Persephone!

And still in boyish rivalry Young Daphnis challenges his mate; Dost thou remember Sicily?

Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee, For thee the jocund shepherds wait; O Singer of Persephone! Dost thou remember Sicily?

IN THE GOLD ROOM

A HARMONY

HER ivory hands on the ivory keys Strayed in a fitful fantasy, Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly, Or the drifting foam of a restless sea When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.

Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun On the burnished disk of the marigold, Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun When the gloom of the dark blue night is done, And the spear of the lily is aureoled.

And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine Burned like the ruby fire set In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine, Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate, Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

BALLADE DE MARGUERITE

(NORMANDE)

I AM weary of lying within the chase When the knights are meeting in market-place.

Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.

But I would not go where the Squires ride, I would only walk by my Lady’s side.

Alack! and alack! thou art overbold, A Forester’s son may not eat off gold.

Will she love me the less that my Father is seen Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?

Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie, Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.

Ah, if she is working the arras bright I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.

Perchance she is hunting of the deer, How could you follow o’er hill and mere?

Ah, if she is riding with the court, I might run beside her and wind the morte.

Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys, (On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)

Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle, I might swing the censer and ring the bell.

Come in, my son, for you look sae pale, The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.

But who are these knights in bright array? Is it a pageant the rich folks play?

’T is the King of England from over sea, Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.

But why does the curfew toll sae low? And why do the mourners walk a-row?

O ’t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son Who is lying stark, for his day is done.

Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear, It is no strong man who lies on the bier.

O ’t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall, I knew she would die at the autumn fall.

Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair, Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.

O ’t is none of our kith and none of our kin, (Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)

But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet, ‘Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’

Come in, my son, and lie on the bed, And let the dead folk bury their dead.

O mother, you know I loved her true: O mother, hath one grave room for two?

THE DOLE OF THE KING’S DAUGHTER

(BRETON)

SEVEN stars in the still water, And seven in the sky; Seven sins on the King’s daughter, Deep in her soul to lie.

Red roses are at her feet, (Roses are red in her red-gold hair) And O where her bosom and girdle meet Red roses are hidden there.

Fair is the knight who lieth slain Amid the rush and reed, See the lean fishes that are fain Upon dead men to feed.

Sweet is the page that lieth there, (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,) See the black ravens in the air, Black, O black as the night are they.

What do they there so stark and dead? (There is blood upon her hand) Why are the lilies flecked with red? (There is blood on the river sand.)

There are two that ride from the south and east, And two from the north and west, For the black raven a goodly feast, For the King’s daughter rest.

There is one man who loves her true, (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!) He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew, (One grave will do for four.)

No moon in the still heaven, In the black water none, The sins on her soul are seven, The sin upon his is one.

AMOR INTELLECTUALIS

OFT have we trod the vales of Castaly And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown From antique reeds to common folk unknown: And often launched our bark upon that sea Which the nine Muses hold in empery, And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam, Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home Till we had freighted well our argosy. Of which despoilèd treasures these remain, Sordello’s passion, and the honeyed line Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine Driving his pampered jades, and more than these, The seven-fold vision of the Florentine, And grave-browed Milton’s solemn harmonies.

SANTA DECCA

THE Gods are dead: no longer do we bring To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves! Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves, And in the noon the careless shepherds sing, For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning By secret glade and devious haunt is o’er: Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more; Great Pan is dead, and Mary’s son is King.

And yet—perchance in this sea-trancèd isle, Chewing the bitter fruit of memory, Some God lies hidden in the asphodel. Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well For us to fly his anger: nay, but see, The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile.

CORFU.

A VISION

TWO crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone With no green weight of laurels round his head, But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan For sins no bleating victim can atone, And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed. Girt was he in a garment black and red, And at his feet I marked a broken stone Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees. Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame, I cried to Beatricé, ‘Who are these?’ And she made answer, knowing well each name, ‘Æschylos first, the second Sophokles, And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’

IMPRESSION DE VOYAGE

THE sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky Burned like a heated opal through the air; We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair For the blue lands that to the eastward lie. From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek, Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak, And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady. The flapping of the sail against the mast, The ripple of the water on the side, The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern, The only sounds:—when ’gan the West to burn, And a red sun upon the seas to ride, I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

KATAKOLO.

THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY

LIKE burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone; Here doth the little night-owl make her throne, And the slight lizard show his jewelled head. And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red, In the still chamber of yon pyramid Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid, Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.

Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep, But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb In the blue cavern of an echoing deep, Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.

ROME.

BY THE ARNO

THE oleander on the wall Grows crimson in the dawning light, Though the grey shadows of the night Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

The dew is bright upon the hill, And bright the blossoms overhead, But ah! the grasshoppers have fled, The little Attic song is still.

Only the leaves are gently stirred By the soft breathing of the gale, And in the almond-scented vale The lonely nightingale is heard.

The day will make thee silent soon, O nightingale sing on for love! While yet upon the shadowy grove Splinter the arrows of the moon.

Before across the silent lawn In sea-green vest the morning steals, And to love’s frightened eyes reveals The long white fingers of the dawn

Fast climbing up the eastern sky To grasp and slay the shuddering night, All careless of my heart’s delight, Or if the nightingale should die.

IMPRESSIONS DE THÉÂTRE

FABIEN DEI FRANCHI

TO MY FRIEND HENRY IRVING

THE silent room, the heavy creeping shade, The dead that travel fast, the opening door, The murdered brother rising through the floor, The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid, And then the lonely duel in the glade, The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore, Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o’er,— These things are well enough,—but thou wert made For more august creation! frenzied Lear Should at thy bidding wander on the heath With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear Pluck Richard’s recreant dagger from its sheath— Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to blow!

PHÈDRE

TO SARAH BERNHARDT

HOW vain and dull this common world must seem To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked At Florence with Mirandola, or walked Through the cool olives of the Academe: Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played With the white girls in that Phæacian glade Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.

Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again Back to this common world so dull and vain, For thou wert weary of the sunless day, The heavy fields of scentless asphodel, The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.

WRITTEN AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE

I PORTIA

TO ELLEN TERRY