Chapter 3

From the banks and the beds Of the waters divine They lift up their heads And the flowers of them shine Through the splendour of darkness that clothes them of water that glimmers like wine.

Bright bank over bank Making glorious the gloom, Soft rank upon rank, Strange bloom after bloom, They kindle the liquid low twilight, the dusk of the dim sea's womb.

Through the subtle and tangible Gloom without form, Their branches, infrangible Ever of storm Spread softer their sprays than the shoots of the woodland when April is warm.

As the flight of the thunder, full Charged with its word, Dividing the wonderful Depths like a bird, Speaks wrath and delight to the heart of the night that exults to have heard,

So swiftly, though soundless In silence's ear, Light, winged from the boundless Blue depths full of cheer, Speaks joy to the heart of the waters that part not before him, but hear.

Light, perfect and visible Godhead of God, God indivisible, Lifts but his rod, And the shadows are scattered in sunder, and darkness is light at his nod.

At the touch of his wand, At the nod of his head From the spaces beyond Where the dawn hath her bed, Earth, water, and air are transfigured, and rise as one risen from the dead.

He puts forth his hand, And the mountains are thrilled To the heart as they stand In his presence, fulfilled With his glory that utters his grace upon earth, and her sorrows are stilled.

The moan of her travail That groans for the light Till dayspring unravel The weft of the night, At the sound of the strings of the music of morning, falls dumb with delight.

He gives forth his word, And the word that he saith, Ere well it be heard, Strikes darkness to death; For the thought of his heart is the sunrise, and dawn as the sound of his breath.

And the strength of its pulses That passion makes proud Confounds and convulses The depths of the cloud Of the darkness that heaven was engirt with, divided and rent as a shroud,

As the veil of the shrine Of the temple of old When darkness divine Over noonday was rolled; So the heart of the night by the pulse of the light is convulsed and controlled.

And the sea's heart, groaning For glories withdrawn, And the waves' mouths, moaning All night for the dawn, Are uplift as the hearts and the mouths of the singers on leaside and lawn.

And the sound of the quiring Of all these as one, Desired and desiring Till dawn's will be done, Fills full with delight of them heaven till it burns as the heart of the sun.

Till the waves too inherit And waters take part In the sense of the spirit That breathes from his heart, And are kindled with music as fire when the lips of the morning part,

With music unheard In the light of her lips, In the life-giving word Of the dewfall that drips On the grasses of earth, and the wind that enkindles the wings of the ships.

White glories of wings As of seafaring birds That flock from the springs Of the sunrise in herds With the wind for a herdsman, and hasten or halt at the change of his words.

As the watchword's change When the wind's note shifts, And the skies grow strange, And the white squall drifts Up sharp from the sea-line, vexing the sea till the low cloud lifts.

At the charge of his word Bidding pause, bidding haste, When the ranks are stirred And the lines displaced, They scatter as wild swans parting adrift on the wan green waste.

At the hush of his word In a pause of his breath When the waters have heard His will that he saith, They stand as a flock penned close in its fold for division of death.

As a flock by division Of death to be thinned, As the shades in a vision Of spirits that sinned; So glimmer their shrouds and their sheetings as clouds on the stream of the wind.

But the sun stands fast, And the sea burns bright, And the flight of them past Is no more than the flight Of the snow-soft swarm of serene wings poised and afloat in the light.

Like flowers upon flowers In a festival way When hours after hours Shed grace on the day, White blossomlike butterflies hover and gleam through the snows of the spray.

Like snow-coloured petals Of blossoms that flee From storm that unsettles The flower as the tree They flutter, a legion of flowers on the wing, through the field of the sea.

Through the furrowless field Where the foam-blossoms blow And the secrets are sealed Of their harvest below They float in the path of the sunbeams, as flakes or as blossoms of snow.

Till the sea's ways darken, And the God, withdrawn, Give ear not or hearken If prayer on him fawn, And the sun's self seem but a shadow, the noon as a ghost of the dawn.

No shadow, but rather God, father of song, Shew grace to me, Father God, loved of me long, That I lose not the light of thy face, that my trust in thee work me not wrong.

While yet I make forward With face toward thee Not turned yet in shoreward, Be thine upon me; Be thy light on my forehead or ever I turn it again from the sea.

As a kiss on my brow Be the light of thy grace, Be thy glance on me now From the pride of thy place: As the sign of a sire to a son be the light on my face of thy face.

Thou wast father of olden Times hailed and adored, And the sense of thy golden Great harp's monochord Was the joy in the soul of the singers that hailed thee for master and lord.

Fair father of all In thy ways that have trod, That have risen at thy call, That have thrilled at thy nod, Arise, shine, lighten upon me, O sun that we see to be God.

As my soul has been dutiful Only to thee, O God most beautiful, Lighten thou me, As I swim through the dim long rollers, with eyelids uplift from the sea.

Be praised and adored of us All in accord, Father and lord of us Alway adored, The slayer and the stayer and the harper, the light of us all and our lord.

At the sound of thy lyre, At the touch of thy rod, Air quickens to fire By the foot of thee trod, The saviour and healer and singer, the living and visible God.

The years are before thee As shadows of thee, As men that adore thee, As cloudlets that flee: But thou art the God, and thy kingdom is heaven, and thy shrine is the sea.

_AFTER NINE YEARS._

TO JOSEPH MAZZINI.

_Primâ dicte mihi, summâ dicende Camenâ._

1.

The shadows fallen of years are nine Since heaven grew seven times more divine With thy soul entering, and the dearth Of souls on earth Grew sevenfold sadder, wanting One Whose light of life, quenched here and done, Burns there eternal as the sun.

2.

Beyond all word, beyond all deed, Beyond all thought beloved, what need Has death or love that speech should be, Hast thou of me? I had no word, no prayer, no cry, To praise or hail or mourn thee by, As when thou too wast man as I.

3.

Nay, never, nor as any born Save one whose name priests turn to scorn, Who haply, though we know not now, Was man as thou, A wanderer branded with men's blame, Loved past man's utterance: yea, the same, Perchance, and as his name thy name.

4.

Thou wast as very Christ--not he Degraded into Deity, And priest-polluted by such prayer As poisons air, Tongue-worship of the tongue that slays, False faith and parricidal praise: But the man crowned with suffering days.

5.

God only, being of all mankind Most manlike, of most equal mind And heart most perfect, more than can Be heart of man Once in ten ages, born to be As haply Christ was, and as we Knew surely, seeing, and worshipped thee.

6.

To know thee--this at least was ours, God, clothed upon with human hours, O face beloved, O spirit adored, Saviour and lord! That wast not only for thine own Redeemer--not of these alone But all to whom thy word was known.

7.

Ten years have wrought their will with me Since last my words took wing for thee Who then wast even as now above Me, and my love. As then thou knewest not scorn, so now With that beloved benignant brow Take these of him whose light wast thou.

_FOR A PORTRAIT OF FELICE ORSINI._

Steadfast as sorrow, fiery sad, and sweet With underthoughts of love and faith, more strong Than doubt and hate and all ill thoughts which throng, Haply, round hope's or fear's world-wandering feet That find no rest from wandering till they meet Death, bearing palms in hand and crowns of song; His face, who thought to vanquish wrong with wrong, Erring, and make rage and redemption meet, Havoc and freedom; weaving in one weft Good with his right hand, evil with his left; But all a hero lived and erred and died; Looked thus upon the living world he left So bravely that with pity less than pride Men hail him Patriot and Tyrannicide.

_EVENING ON THE BROADS._

Over two shadowless waters, adrift as a pinnace in peril, Hangs as in heavy suspense, charged with irresolute light, Softly the soul of the sunset upholden awhile on the sterile Waves and wastes of the land, half repossessed by the night. Inland glimmer the shallows asleep and afar in the breathless Twilight: yonder the depths darken afar and asleep. Slowly the semblance of death out of heaven descends on the deathless Waters: hardly the light lives on the face of the deep-- Hardly, but here for awhile. All over the grey soft shallow Hover the colours and clouds of the twilight, void of a star. As a bird unfledged is the broad-winged night, whose winglets are callow Yet, but soon with their plumes will she cover her brood from afar, Cover the brood of her worlds that cumber the skies with their blossom Thick as the darkness of leaf-shadowed spring is encumbered with flowers. World upon world is enwound in the bountiful girth of her bosom, Warm and lustrous with life lovely to look on as ours. Still is the sunset adrift as a spirit in doubt that dissembles Still with itself, being sick of division and dimmed by dismay-- Nay, not so; but with love and delight beyond passion it trembles, Fearful and fain of the night, lovely with love of the day: Fain and fearful of rest that is like unto death, and begotten Out of the womb of the tomb, born of the seed of the grave: Lovely with shadows of loves that are only not wholly forgotten, Only not wholly suppressed by the dark as a wreck by the wave. Still there linger the loves of the morning and noon, in a vision Blindly beheld, but in vain: ghosts that are tired, and would rest. But the glories beloved of the night rise all too dense for division, Deep in the depth of her breast sheltered as doves in a nest. Fainter the beams of the loves of the daylight season enkindled Wane, and the memories of hours that were fair with the love of them fade: Loftier, aloft of the lights of the sunset stricken and dwindled, Gather the signs of the love at the heart of the night new-made. New-made night, new-born of the sunset, immeasurable, endless, Opens the secret of love hid from of old in her heart, In the deep sweet heart full-charged with faultless love of the friendless Spirits of men that are eased when the wheels of the sun depart. Still is the sunset afloat as a ship on the waters upholden Full-sailed, wide-winged, poised softly for ever asway-- Nay, not so, but at least for a little, awhile at the golden Limit of arching air fain for an hour to delay. Here on the bar of the sand-bank, steep yet aslope to the gleaming Waste of the water without, waste of the water within, Lights overhead and lights underneath seem doubtfully dreaming Whether the day be done, whether the night may begin. Far and afar and farther again they falter and hover, Warm on the water and deep in the sky and pale on the cloud: Colder again and slowly remoter, afraid to recover Breath, yet fain to revive, as it seems, from the skirt of the shroud. Faintly the heartbeats shorten and pause of the light in the westward Heaven, as eastward quicken the paces of star upon star Hurried and eager of life as a child that strains to the breast-ward Eagerly, yearning forth of the deeps where the ways of them are, Glad of the glory of the gift of their life and the wealth of its wonder, Fain of the night and the sea and the sweet wan face of the earth. Over them air grows deeper, intense with delight in them: under Things are thrilled in their sleep as with sense of a sure new birth. But here by the sand-bank watching, with eyes on the sea-line, stranger Grows to me also the weight of the sea-ridge gazed on of me, Heavily heaped up, changefully changeless, void though of danger Void not of menace, but full of the might of the dense dull sea. Like as the wave is before me, behind is the bank deep-drifted; Yellow and thick as the bank is behind me in front is the wave. As the wall of a prison imprisoning the mere is the girth of it lifted: But the rampire of water in front is erect as the wall of a grave. And the crests of it crumble and topple and change, but the wall is not broken: Standing still dry-shod, I see it as higher than my head, Moving inland alway again, reared up as in token Still of impending wrath still in the foam of it shed. And even in the pauses between them, dividing the rollers in sunder, High overhead seems ever the sea-line fixed as a mark, And the shore where I stand as a valley beholden of hills whence thunder Cloud and torrent and storm, darkening the depths of the dark. Up to the sea, not upon it or over it, upward from under Seems he to gaze, whose eyes yearn after it here from the shore: A wall of turbid water, aslope to the wide sky's wonder Of colour and cloud, it climbs, or spreads as a slanted floor. And the large lights change on the face of the mere like things that were living, Winged and wonderful, beams like as birds are that pass and are free: But the light is dense as darkness, a gift withheld in the giving, That lies as dead on the fierce dull face of the landward sea. Stained and stifled and soiled, made earthier than earth is and duller, Grimly she puts back light as rejected, a thing put away: No transparent rapture, a molten music of colour; No translucent love taken and given of the day. Fettered and marred and begrimed is the light's live self on her falling, As the light of a man's life lighted the fume of a dungeon mars: Only she knows of the wind, when her wrath gives ear to him calling; The delight of the light she knows not, nor answers the sun or the stars. Love she hath none to return for the luminous love of their giving: None to reflect from the bitter and shallow response of her heart Yearly she feeds on her dead, yet herself seems dead and not living, Or confused as a soul heavy-laden with trouble that will not depart. In the sound of her speech to the darkness the moan of her evil remorse is, Haply, for strong ships gnawed by the dog-toothed sea-bank's fang And trampled to death by the rage of the feet of her foam-lipped horses Whose manes are yellow as plague, and as ensigns of pestilence hang, That wave in the foul faint air of the breath of a death-stricken city; So menacing heaves she the manes of her rollers knotted with sand, Discoloured, opaque, suspended in sign as of strength without pity, That shake with flameless thunder the low long length of the strand. Here, far off in the farther extreme of the shore as it lengthens Northward, lonely for miles, ere ever a village begin, On the lapsing land that recedes as the growth of the strong sea strengthens Shoreward, thrusting further and further its outworks in, Here in Shakespeare's vision, a flower of her kin forsaken, Lay in her golden raiment alone on the wild wave's edge, Surely by no shore else, but here on the bank storm-shaken, Perdita, bright as a dew-drop engilt of the sun on the sedge. Here on a shore unbeheld of his eyes in a dream he beheld her Outcast, fair as a fairy, the child of a far-off king: And over the babe-flower gently the head of a pastoral elder Bowed, compassionate, hoar as the hawthorn-blossom in spring, And kind as harvest in autumn: a shelter of shade on the lonely Shelterless unknown shore scourged of implacable waves: Here, where the wind walks royal, alone in his kingdom, and only Sounds to the sedges a wail as of triumph that conquers and craves. All these waters and wastes are his empire of old, and awaken From barren and stagnant slumber at only the sound of his breath: Yet the hunger is eased not that aches in his heart, nor the goal overtaken That his wide wings yearn for and labour as hearts that yearn after death. All the solitude sighs and expects with a blind expectation Somewhat unknown of its own sad heart, grown heart-sick of strife: Till sometime its wild heart maddens, and moans, and the vast ululation Takes wing with the clouds on the waters, and wails to be quit of its life. For the spirit and soul of the waste is the wind, and his wings with their waving Darken and lighten the darkness and light of it thickened or thinned; But the heart that impels them is even as a conqueror's insatiably craving That victory can fill not, as power cannot satiate the want of the wind. All these moorlands and marshes are full of his might, and oppose not Aught of defence nor of barrier, of forest or precipice piled: But the will of the wind works ever as his that desires what he knows not, And the wail of his want unfulfilled is as one making moan for her child. And the cry of his triumph is even as the crying of hunger that maddens The heart of a strong man aching in vain as the wind's heart aches And the sadness itself of the land for its infinite solitude saddens More for the sound than the silence athirst for the sound that slakes. And the sunset at last and the twilight are dead: and the darkness is breathless With fear of the wind's breath rising that seems and seems not to sleep: But a sense of the sound of it alway, a spirit unsleeping and deathless, Ghost or God, evermore moves on the face of the deep.

_THE EMPEROR'S PROGRESS._

A STUDY IN THREE STAGES.

(On the Busts of Nero in the Uffizj.)

I.

A child of brighter than the morning's birth And lovelier than all smiles that may be smiled Save only of little children undefiled, Sweet, perfect, witless of their own dear worth, Live rose of love, mute melody of mirth, Glad as a bird is when the woods are mild, Adorable as is nothing save a child, Hails with wide eyes and lips his life on earth, His lovely life with all its heaven to be. And whoso reads the name inscribed or hears Feels his own heart a frozen well of tears, Child, for deep dread and fearful pity of thee Whom God would not let rather die than see The incumbent horror of impending years.

II.

Man, that wast godlike being a child, and now, No less than kinglike, art no more in sooth For all thy grace and lordliness of youth, The crown that bids men's branded foreheads bow Much more has branded and bowed down thy brow And gnawn upon it as with fire or tooth Of steel or snake so sorely, that the truth Seems here to bear false witness. Is it thou, Child? and is all the summer of all thy spring This? are the smiles that drew men's kisses down All faded and transfigured to the frown That grieves thy face? Art thou this weary thing? Then is no slave's load heavier than a crown And such a thrall no bondman as a king.

III.

Misery, beyond all men's most miserable, Absolute, whole, defiant of defence, Inevitable, inexplacable, intense, More vast than heaven is high, more deep than hell, Past cure or charm of solace or of spell, Possesses and pervades the spirit and sense Whereto the expanse of the earth pays tribute; whence Breeds evil only, and broods on fumes that swell Rank from the blood of brother and mother and wife. 'Misery of miseries, all is misery,' saith The heavy fair-faced hateful head, at strife With its own lusts that burn with feverous breath Lips which the loathsome bitterness of life Leaves fearful of the bitterness of death.

_THE RESURRECTION OF ALCILIA._

(Gratefully inscribed to Dr. A.B. Grosart.)

Sweet song-flower of the Mayspring of our song, Be welcome to us, with loving thanks and praise To his good hand who travelling on strange ways Found thee forlorn and fragrant, lain along Beneath dead leaves that many a winter's wrong Had rained and heaped through nigh three centuries' maze Above thy Maybloom, hiding from our gaze The life that in thy leaves lay sweet and strong. For thine have life, while many above thine head Piled by the wind lie blossomless and dead. So now disburdened of such load above That lay as death's own dust upon thee shed By days too deaf to hear thee like a dove Murmuring, we hear thee, bird and flower of love.

_THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY._

(On the refusal by the French Senate of the plenary amnesty demanded by Victor Hugo, in his speech of July 3rd, for the surviving exiles of the Commune.)

Thou shouldst have risen as never dawn yet rose, Day of the sunrise of the soul of France, Dawn of the whole world's morning, when the trance Of all the world had end, and all its woes Respite, prophetic of their perfect close. Light of all tribes of men, all names and clans, Dawn of the whole world's morning and of man's Flower of the heart of morning's mystic rose, Dawn of the very dawn of very day, When the sun brighter breaks night's ruinous prison, Thou shouldst have risen as yet no dawn has risen, Evoked of him whose word puts night away, Our father, at the music of whose word Exile had ended, and the world had heard.

_July 5, 1880._

LAUNCH OF THE LIVADIA

Malâ soluta navis exit alite. HOR.

Rigged with curses dark. MILTON.

_THE LAUNCH OF THE LIVADIA._

I.