Part 2

It shows a warrior armed: Across his iron breast His hands by death are charmed To leave his sword at rest,

Wherewith he led his men O’er sea, and smote to hell The astonisht Saracen, Nor doubted he did well.

Would we could teach our sons His trust in face of doom, Or give our bravest ones A comparable tomb:

Such as to look on shrives The heart of half its care, So in each line survives The spirit that made it fair;

So fair the characters With which the dusky scroll That tells his title stirs A requiem for his soul.

Yet dearer far to me, And brave as he, are they Who fight by land and sea For England at this day;

Whose vile memorials, In mournful marbles gilt, Deface the beauteous walls By growing glory built.

Heirs of our antique shrines, Sires of our future fame, Whose starry honor shines In many a noble name

Across the deathful days, Linked in the brotherhood That loves our country’s praise And lives for heavenly good.

NOVEMBER.

I.

The lonely season in lonely lands, when fled Are half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sun Is rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed; The short days pass unwelcomed one by one.

Out by the ricks the mantled engine stands Crestfall’n, deserted,--for now all hands Are told to the plough,--and ere it is dawn appear The teams following and crossing far and near, As hour by hour they broaden the brown bands Of the striped fields; and behind them firk and prance The heavy rooks, and daws gray-pated dance: Or awhile, surmounting a crest, against the sky Pictured a whole team stands, or now near by Above the lane they shout, lifting the share, By the trim hedgerow bloomed with purple air; Where, under the thorns, dead leaves in huddle lie Packed by the gales of Autumn, and in and out The small wrens glide With a happy note of cheer, And yellow amorets flutter above and about, Gay, familiar in fear.

II.

And now, if the night shall be cold, across the sky Linnets and twites, in small flocks helter-skelter, All the afternoon to the gardens fly, From thistle-pastures hurrying to gain the shelter Of American rhododendron or cherry-laurel; And here and there, near chilly setting of sun, In an isolated tree a congregation Of starlings chatter and chide, Thickset as summer leaves, in garrulous quarrel. Suddenly they hush as one,-- The tree-top springs,-- And off, with a whirr of wings, They fly by the score To the holly-thicket, and there with myriads more Dispute for the roosts; and from the unseen nation A babel of tongues, like running water unceasing, Makes live the wood, the flocking cries increasing, Wrangling discordantly, incessantly, While falls the night on them self-occupied,-- The long, dark night, that lengthens slow, Deepening with winter to starve grass and tree, And soon to bury in snow The earth, that, sleeping ’neath her frozen stole, Shall dream a dream crept from the sunless pole Of how her end shall be.

THE SOUTH WIND.

I.

The south wind rose at dusk of the winter day, The warm breath of the western sea Circling wrapped the isle with his cloak of cloud, And it now reached even to me, at dusk of the day, And moaned in the branches aloud: While here and there, in patches of dark space, A star shone forth from its heavenly place, As a spark that is borne in the smoky chase; And, looking up, there fell on my face-- Could it be drops of rain, Soft as the wind, that fell on my face? Gossamers light as threads of the summer dawn, Sucked by the sun from midmost calms of the main, From groves of coral islands secretly drawn, O’er half the round of earth to be driven, Now to fall on my face In silky skeins spun from the mists of heaven.

II.

Who art thou, in wind and darkness and soft rain Thyself that robest, that bendest in sighing pines To whisper thy truth? that usest for signs A hurried glimpse of the moon, the glance of a star In the rifted sky? Who art thou, that with thee I Woo and am wooed? That, robing thyself in darkness and soft rain, Choosest my chosen solitude, Coming so far To tell thy secret again, As a mother her child on her folding arm, Of a winter night by a flickering fire, Telleth the same tale o’er and o’er With gentle voice, and I never tire, So imperceptibly changeth the charm, As Love on buried ecstasy buildeth his tower, Like as the stem that beareth the flower By trembling is knit to power. Ah! long ago In thy first rapture I renounced my lot, The vanity, the despondency, and the woe, And seeking thee to know, Well was’t for me, and evermore I am thine, I know not what.

III.

For me thou seekest ever, me wondering a day In the eternal alternations, me Free for a stolen moment of chance To dream a beautiful dream In the everlasting dance Of speechless worlds, the unsearchable scheme, To me thou findest the way, Me and whomsoe’er I have found my dream to share Still with thy charm encircling; even to-night To me and my love in darkness and soft rain Under the sighing pines thou comest again, And staying our speech with mystery of delight, Of the kiss that I give a wonder thou makest, And the kiss that I take thou takest.

WINTER NIGHTFALL.

The day begins to droop,-- Its course is done; But nothing tells the place Of the setting sun.

The hazy darkness deepens, And up the lane You may hear, but cannot see, The homing wain.

An engine pants and hums In the farm hard by: Its lowering smoke is lost In the lowering sky.

The soaking branches drip, And all night through The dropping will not cease In the avenue.

A tall man there in the house Must keep his chair: He knows he will never again Breathe the spring air.

His heart is worn with work; He is giddy and sick If he rise to go as far As the nearest rick.

He thinks of his morn of life, His hale, strong years; And braves as he may the night Of darkness and tears.

ERRATA. (corrected in this etext.)

Page 40, second line from bottom, for “discontinue,” read “disentwine.”

Page 51, third line from top, for “thy,” read “the.”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] For example, there is a passage in Dr. Parry’s recent work, “The Art of Music,” which will illustrate what I mean. It is in the chapter on Modern Tendencies. See especially, page 311.

[2] I omit the _idea_, the musical suggestion of which is a feat of genius, independent of style. The apprehension and exhibition of the _mood_ is generally considered a simple matter, but really it affords a wide field for subtlety of interpretation. I have, for the sake of simplicity, assumed that in their choral music the older musicians altogether disregarded the speech inflection of the _phrase_; but this is not quite true, and since, especially in such words as they usually set, the speech inflection is often uncertain and unimportant, or altogether a nonentity, and would very well correspond with almost any simple musical expression of the mood, this distinction between ancients and moderns cannot always be seen, or will appear only as a difference of degree.

[3] Throughout these remarks I speak chiefly of the Ode. It is necessary in so wide a subject to aim at a definite mark, and while an ode happens to be in question, the Ode is also the example which is taken by Dr. Parry in the passage to which I have referred the reader.

End of Project Gutenberg's Purcell Ode and Other Poems, by Robert Bridges