Part 11

I will be what God made me, nor protest Against the bent of genius in my time, That science of my friends robs all the best, While I love beauty, and was born to rhyme. Be they our mighty men, and let me dwell In shadow among the mighty shades of old, With love’s forsaken palace for my cell; Whence I look forth and all the world behold,

And say, These better days, in best things worse, This bastardy of time’s magnificence, Will mend in fashion and throw off the curse, To crown new love with higher excellence. Curs’d tho’ I be to live my life alone, My toil is for man’s joy, his joy my own.

63

I live on hope and that I think do all Who come into this world, and since I see Myself in swim with such good company, I take my comfort whatsoe’er befall. I abide and abide, as if more stout and tall My spirit would grow by waiting like a tree; And, clear of others’ toil, it pleaseth me In dreams their quick ambition to forestall.

And if thro’ careless eagerness I slide To some accomplishment, I give my voice Still to desire, and in desire abide. I have no stake abroad; if I rejoice In what is done or doing, I confide Neither to friend nor foe my secret choice.

64

Ye blessed saints, that now in heaven enjoy The purchase of those tears, the world’s disdain, Doth Love still with his war your peace annoy, Or hath Death freed you from his ancient pain? Have ye no springtide, and no burst of May In flowers and leafy trees, when solemn night Pants with love-music, and the holy day Breaks on the ear with songs of heavenly light?

What make ye and what strive for? keep ye thought Of us, or in new excellence divine Is old forgot? or do ye count for nought What the Greek did and what the Florentine? We keep your memories well: O in your store Live not our best joys treasured evermore?

65

Ah heavenly joy! But who hath ever heard, Who hath seen joy, or who shall ever find Joy’s language? There is neither speech nor word; Nought but itself to teach it to mankind. Scarce in our twenty thousand painful days We may touch something: but there lives--beyond The best of art, or nature’s kindest phase-- The hope whereof our spirit is fain and fond:

The cause of beauty given to man’s desires, Writ in the expectancy of starry skies, The faith which gloweth in our fleeting fires, The aim of all the good that here we prize; Which but to love, pursue and pray for well Maketh earth heaven, and to forget it, hell.

66

My wearied heart, whenever, after all, Its loves and yearnings shall be told complete, When gentle death shall bid it cease to beat, And from all dear illusions disenthrall: However then thou shalt appear to call My fearful heart, since down at others’ feet It bade me kneel so oft, I’ll not retreat From thee, nor fear before thy feet to fall.

And I shall say, ‘Receive this loving heart Which err’d in sorrow only; and in sin Took no delight; but being forced apart From thee, without thee hoping thee to win, Most prized what most thou madest as thou art On earth, till heaven were open to enter in.’

67

Dreary was winter, wet with changeful sting Of clinging snowfall and fast-flying frost; And bitterer northwinds then withheld the spring, That dallied with her promise till ’twas lost. A sunless and half-hearted summer drown’d The flowers in needful and unwelcom’d rain; And Autumn with a sad smile fled uncrown’d From fruitless orchards and unripen’d grain.

But could the skies of this most desolate year In its last month learn with our love to glow, Men yet should rank its cloudless atmosphere Above the sunsets of five years ago: Of my great praise too part should be its own, Now reckon’d peerless for thy love alone.

68

Away now, lovely Muse, roam and be free: Our commerce ends for aye, thy task is done: Tho’ to win thee I left all else unwon, Thou, whom I most have won, art not for me. My first desire, thou too foregone must be, Thou too, O much lamented now, tho’ none Will turn to pity thy forsaken son, Nor thy divine sisters will weep for thee.

None will weep for thee: thou return, O Muse, To thy Sicilian fields: I once have been On thy loved hills, and where thou first didst use Thy sweetly balanced rhyme, O thankless queen, Have pluck’d and wreath’d thy flowers; but do thou choose Some happier brow to wear thy garlands green.

69

Eternal Father, who didst all create, In whom we live, and to whose bosom move, To all men be Thy name known, which is Love, Till its loud praises sound at heaven’s high gate. Perfect Thy kingdom in our passing state, That here on earth Thou mayst as well approve Our service, as Thou ownest theirs above, Whose joy we echo and in pain await.

Grant body and soul each day their daily bread: And should in spite of grace fresh woe begin, Even as our anger soon is past and dead Be Thy remembrance mortal of our sin: By Thee in paths of peace Thy sheep be led, And in the vale of terror comforted.

NOTES

NOTE ON EROS AND PSYCHE.

This Poem is in all essentials a faithful translation of Apuleius’ story, the chief differences being that first, in the way of form, I have, for the sake of balance and contrast, chosen to lengthen the introductory portion; I have also located the story in Crete, and this gives rise to occasional description.--The description of the sunset on p. 83 is a portrait of the phenomena which followed the great eruption of Krakatoa.--Secondly, in the way of ethic I have made a gentler characterization of Psyche, who deserves more care in handling the motives of her conduct than was perhaps felt in Apuleius’ time and country.

The acrostic on p. 102 is a remnant of my original dedication. In the first edition there was a note acknowledging the frequent translations from the Greek, and other robberies: and in the second, in which I altered the spelling, I gave my reasons for that, in so far as it is unusual. These reasons I need not repeat here, especially as the spelling is not at all as I should wish to see it. I advocate liberty in these matters instead of the conventional tyranny. But I will add here that the main inconsistencies of the punctuation are owing to this volume being a reprint of three separate books. The stops are intended solely for the readers’ convenience; and almost anything is better than the regulations of a methodic punctuation, which by assuming the possibility of indicating all the varieties of grammatical structure and rhythmic pause by four symbols, cannot be applied without perpetual vexation and injury.

NOTE ON THE GROWTH OF LOVE.

It was not my wish or intention to offer these sonnets to the public, but since they have been published in America without my permission, and some of them have appeared in collections of poetry in this country, and have been mentioned in professional criticism, I have thought it wise to come to their rescue, and include them in this edition of my poems; to which end I have, while this volume was in the press, revised them; cutting out ten, and amending the worst places in others where I could. As they now stand they still make an imperfect poem, but one for which I need not further apologize.

_Note on Sonnet XIX._--The octett forms part of my ‘Purcell Commemoration Ode,’ published as No. 2 of Elkin Mathews’ ‘Shilling Garland,’ 1896, and set to music by Dr. Hubert Parry.

_XXXV._ The argument is partly from Michael Angelo’s Madrigal xix.

_LXIII._ Partly from the anonymous sonnet No. 3793 in the Libro reale, ‘Io vivo di speranza.’

_LXIV._ The first quatrain from Michael Angelo’s Madrigal, ‘Beati voi.’

_LXVII._ ‘The sunsets of five years ago,’ which happen to be described on p. 83 of this volume.

R. B.

1898.

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Transcriber's Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.

There are many small decorative illustrations within the book. These have not been indicated