Part 2

Since in Athens God stood plain for adoration, Since the sun beheld his likeness reared in stone, Since the bronze or gold of human consecration Gave to Greece her guardian's form and feature shown, Never hand of sculptor, never heart of nation, Found so glorious aim in all these ages flown As is theirs who rear for all time's acclamation Here the likeness of our mightiest and their own.

2

Theirs and ours and all men's living who behold him Crowned with garlands multiform and manifold; Praise and thanksgiving of all mankind enfold him Who for all men casts abroad his gifts of gold. With the gods of song have all men's tongues enrolled him, With the helpful gods have all men's hearts enrolled: Ours he is who love him, ours whose hearts' hearts hold him Fast as his the trust that hearts like his may hold.

3

He, the heart most high, the spirit on earth most blameless, Takes in charge all spirits, holds all hearts in trust: As the sea-wind's on the sea his ways are tameless, As the laws that steer the world his works are just. All most noble feel him nobler, all most shameless Feel his wrath and scorn make pale their pride and lust: All most poor and lowliest, all whose wrongs were nameless, Feel his word of comfort raise them from the dust.

4

Pride of place and lust of empire bloody-fruited Knew the blasting of his breath on leaf and fruit: Now the hand that smote the death-tree now disrooted Plants the refuge-tree that has man's hope for root. Ah, but we by whom his darkness was saluted, How shall now all we that see his day salute? How should love not seem by love's own speech confuted, Song before the sovereign singer not be mute?

5

With what worship, by what blessing, in what measure, May we sing of him, salute him, or adore, With what hymn for praise, what thanksgiving for pleasure, Who had given us more than heaven, and gives us more? Heaven's whole treasury, filled up full with night's whole treasure, Holds not so divine or deep a starry store As the soul supreme that deals forth worlds at leisure Clothed with light and darkness, dense with flower and ore.

6

Song had touched the bourn: fresh verses overflow it, Loud and radiant, waves on waves on waves that throng; Still the tide grows, and the sea-mark still below it Sinks and shifts and rises, changed and swept along. Rose it like a rock? the waters overthrow it, And another stands beyond them sheer and strong: Goal by goal pays down its prize, and yields its poet Tribute claimed of triumph, palm achieved of song.

7

Since his hand that holds the keys of fear and wonder Opened on the high priest's dreaming eyes a door Whence the lights of heaven and hell above and under Shone, and smote the face that men bow down before, Thrice again one singer's note had cloven in sunder Night, who blows again not one blast now but four, And the fourfold heaven is kindled with his thunder, And the stars about his forehead are fourscore.

8

From the deep soul's depths where alway love abounded First had risen a song with healing on its wings Whence the dews of mercy raining balms unbounded Shed their last compassion even on sceptred things.[1] Even on heads that like a curse the crown surrounded Fell his crowning pity, soft as cleansing springs; And the sweet last note his wrath relenting sounded Bade men's hearts be melted not for slaves but kings.

9

Next, that faith might strengthen fear and love embolden, On the creeds of priests a scourge of sunbeams fell: And its flash made bare the deeps of heaven, beholden Not of men that cry, Lord, Lord, from church or cell.[2] Hope as young as dawn from night obscure and olden Rose again, such power abides in truth's one spell: Night, if dawn it be that touches her, grows golden; Tears, if such as angels weep, extinguish hell.

10

Through the blind loud mills of barren blear-eyed learning Where in dust and darkness children's foreheads bow, While men's labour, vain as wind or water turning Wheels and sails of dreams, makes life a leafless bough, Fell the light of scorn and pity touched with yearning, Next, from words that shone as heaven's own kindling brow.[3] Stars were these as watch-fires on the world's waste burning, Stars that fade not in the fourfold sunrise now.[4]

11

Now the voice that faints not till all wrongs be wroken Sounds as might the sun's song from the morning's breast, All the seals of silence sealed of night are broken, All the winds that bear the fourfold word are blest. All the keen fierce east flames forth one fiery token; All the north is loud with life that knows not rest, All the south with song as though the stars had spoken; All the judgment-fire of sunset scathes the west.

12

Sound of pæan, roll of chanted panegyric, Though by Pindar's mouth song's trumpet spake forth praise, March of warrior songs in Pythian mood or Pyrrhic, Though the blast were blown by lips of ancient days,

Ring not clearer than the clarion of satiric Song whose breath sweeps bare the plague-infected ways Till the world be pure as heaven is for the lyric Sun to rise up clothed with radiant sounds as rays.

13

Clear across the cloud-rack fluctuant and erratic As the strong star smiles that lets no mourner mourn, Hymned alike from lips of Lesbian choirs or Attic Once at evensong and morning newly born, Clear and sure above the changes of dramatic Tide and current, soft with love and keen with scorn, Smiles the strong sweet soul of maidenhood, ecstatic And inviolate as the red glad mouth of morn.

14

Pure and passionate as dawn, whose apparition Thrills with fire from heaven the wheels of hours that whirl, Rose and passed her radiance in serene transition From his eyes who sought a grain and found a pearl. But the food by cunning hope for vain fruition Lightly stolen away from keeping of a churl Left the bitterness of death and hope's perdition On the lip that scorn was wont for shame to curl.[5]

15

Over waves that darken round the wave-worn rover Rang his clarion higher than winds cried round the ship, Rose a pageant of set suns and storms blown over, Hands that held life's guerdons fast or let them slip. But no tongue may tell, no thanksgiving discover, Half the heaven of blessing, soft with clouds that drip, Keen with beams that kindle, dear as love to lover, Opening by the spell's strength on his lyric lip.

16

By that spell the soul transfigured and dilated Puts forth wings that widen, breathes a brightening air, Feeds on light and drinks of music, whence elated All her sense grows godlike, seeing all depths made bare, All the mists wherein before she sat belated Shrink, till now the sunlight knows not if they were; All this earth transformed is Eden recreated, With the breath of heaven remurmuring in her hair.

17

Sweeter far than aught of sweet that April nurses Deep in dew-dropt woodland folded fast and furled Breathes the fragrant song whose burning dawn disperses Darkness, like the surge of armies backward hurled, Even as though the touch of spring's own hand, that pierces Earth with life's delight, had hidden in the impearled Golden bells and buds and petals of his verses All the breath of all the flowers in all the world.

18

But the soul therein, the light that our souls follow, Fires and fills the song with more of prophet's pride, More of life than all the gulfs of death may swallow, More of flame than all the might of night may hide. Though the whole dark age were loud and void and hollow, Strength of trust were here, and help for all souls tried, And a token from the flight of that strange swallow[6] Whose migration still is toward the wintry side.

19

Never came such token for divine solution From the oraculous live darkness whence of yore Ancient faith sought word of help and retribution, Truth to lighten doubt, a sign to go before. Never so baptismal waters of ablution Bathed the brows of exile on so stern a shore, Where the lightnings of the sea of revolution Flashed across them ere its thunders yet might roar.

20

By the lightning's light of present revelation Shown, with epic thunder as from skies that frown, Clothed in darkness as of darkling expiation, Rose a vision of dead, stars and suns gone down, Whence of old fierce fire devoured the star-struck nation, Till its wrath and woe lit red the raging town, Now made glorious with his statue's crowning station, Where may never gleam again a viler crown.

21

King, with time for throne and all the years for pages, He shall reign though all thrones else be overhurled, Served of souls that have his living words for wages, Crowned of heaven each dawn that leaves his brows impearled; Girt about with robes unrent of storm that rages, Robes not wrought with hands, from no loom's weft unfurled; All the praise of all earth's tongues in all earth's ages, All the love of all men's hearts in all the world.

22

Yet what hand shall carve the soul or cast the spirit, Mould the face of fame, bid glory's feature glow? Who bequeath for eyes of ages hence to inherit Him, the Master, whom love knows not if it know? Scarcely perfect praise of men man's work might merit, Scarcely bid such aim to perfect stature grow, Were his hand the hand of Phidias who shall rear it, And his soul the very soul of Angelo.

23

Michael, awful angel of the world's last session, Once on earth, like him, with fire of suffering tried, Thine it were, if man's it were, without transgression, Thine alone, to take this toil upon thy pride. Thine, whose heart was great against the world's oppression, Even as his whose word is lamp and staff and guide: Advocate for man, untired of intercession, Pleads his voice for slaves whose lords his voice defied.

24

Earth, with all the kings and thralls on earth, below it, Heaven alone, with all the worlds in heaven, above, Let his likeness rise for suns and stars to know it, High for men to worship, plain for men to love: Brow that braved the tides which fain would overflow it, Lip that gave the challenge, hand that flung the glove; Comforter and prophet, Paraclete and poet, Soul whose emblems are an eagle and a dove.

25

Sun, that hast not seen a loftier head wax hoary, Earth, which hast not shown the sun a nobler birth, Time, that hast not on thy scroll defiled and gory One man's name writ brighter in its whole wide girth, Witness, till the final years fulfil their story, Till the stars break off the music of their mirth, What among the sons of men was this man's glory, What the vesture of his soul revealed on earth.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _La Pitié Suprême._ 1879.

[2] _Religions et Religion._ 1880.

[3] _L'Ane._ 1880.

[4] _Les Quatre Vents de l'Esprit._ I. _Le Livre satirique._ II. _Le Livre dramatique._ III. _Le Livre lyrique._ IV. _Le Livre épique._ 1881.

[5] _Les Deux Trouvailles de Gallus._ I. _Margarita, comédie._ II. _Esca, drame._

[6]

Je suis une hirondelle étrange, car j'émigre Du côté de l'hiver.

_Le Livre Lyrique_, liii.

EUTHANATOS

IN MEMORY OF MRS. THELLUSSON

Forth of our ways and woes, Forth of the winds and snows, A white soul soaring goes, Winged like a dove: So sweet, so pure, so clear, So heavenly tempered here, Love need not hope or fear her changed above:

Ere dawned her day to die, So heavenly, that on high Change could not glorify Nor death refine her: Pure gold of perfect love, On earth like heaven's own dove, She cannot wear, above, a smile diviner.

Her voice in heaven's own quire Can sound no heavenlier lyre Than here: no purer fire Her soul can soar: No sweeter stars her eyes In unimagined skies Beyond our sight can rise than here before.

Hardly long years had shed Their shadows on her head: Hardly we think her dead, Who hardly thought her Old: hardly can believe The grief our hearts receive And wonder while they grieve, as wrong were wrought her.

But though strong grief be strong No word or thought of wrong May stain the trembling song, Wring the bruised heart, That sounds or sighs its faint Low note of love, nor taint Grief for so sweet a saint, when such depart.

A saint whose perfect soul, With perfect love for goal, Faith hardly might control, Creeds might not harden: A flower more splendid far Than the most radiant star Seen here of all that are in God's own garden.

Surely the stars we see Rise and relapse as we, And change and set, may be But shadows too: But spirits that man's lot Could neither mar nor spot Like these false lights are not, being heavenly true.

Not like these dying lights Of worlds whose glory smites The passage of the nights Through heaven's blind prison: Not like their souls who see, If thought fly far and free, No heavenlier heaven to be for souls rerisen.

A soul wherein love shone Even like the sun, alone, With fervour of its own And splendour fed, Made by no creeds less kind Toward souls by none confined, Could Death's self quench or blind, Love's self were dead.

_February 4, 1881._

FIRST AND LAST

Upon the borderlands of being, Where life draws hardly breath Between the lights and shadows fleeing Fast as a word one saith, Two flowers rejoice our eyesight, seeing The dawns of birth and death.

Behind the babe his dawn is lying Half risen with notes of mirth From all the winds about it flying Through new-born heaven and earth: Before bright age his day for dying Dawns equal-eyed with birth.

Equal the dews of even and dawn, Equal the sun's eye seen A hand's breadth risen and half withdrawn: But no bright hour between Brings aught so bright by stream or lawn To noonday growths of green.

Which flower of life may smell the sweeter To love's insensual sense, Which fragrance move with offering meeter His soothed omnipotence, Being chosen as fairer or as fleeter, Borne hither or borne hence, Love's foiled omniscience knows not: this Were more than all he knows With all his lore of bale and bliss, The choice of rose and rose, One red as lips that touch with his, One white as moonlit snows.

No hope is half so sweet and good, No dream of saint or sage So fair as these are: no dark mood But these might best assuage; The sweet red rose of babyhood, The white sweet rose of age.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD JOHN TRELAWNY

Last high star of the years whose thunder Still men's listening remembrance hears, Last light left of our fathers' years, Watched with honour and hailed with wonder Thee too then have the years borne under, Thou too then hast regained thy peers.

Wings that warred with the winds of morning, Storm-winds rocking the red great dawn, Close at last, and a film is drawn Over the eyes of the storm-bird, scorning Now no longer the loud wind's warning, Waves that threaten or waves that fawn.

Peers were none of thee left us living, Peers of theirs we shall see no more. Eight years over the full fourscore Knew thee: now shalt thou sleep, forgiving All griefs past of the wild world's giving, Moored at last on the stormless shore.

Worldwide liberty's lifelong lover, Lover no less of the strength of song, Sea-king, swordsman, hater of wrong, Over thy dust that the dust shall cover Comes my song as a bird to hover, Borne of its will as of wings along.

Cherished of thee were this brief song's brothers Now that follows them, cherishing thee. Over the tides and the tideless sea Soft as a smile of the earth our mother's Flies it faster than all those others, First of the troop at thy tomb to be.

Memories of Greece and the mountain's hollow Guarded alone of thy loyal sword Hold thy name for our hearts in ward: Yet more fain are our hearts to follow One way now with the southward swallow Back to the grave of the man their lord.

Heart of hearts, art thou moved not, hearing Surely, if hearts of the dead may hear, Whose true heart it is now draws near? Surely the sense of it thrills thee, cheering Darkness and death with the news now nearing-- Shelley, Trelawny rejoins thee here.

ADIEUX À MARIE STUART

I

Queen, for whose house my fathers fought, With hopes that rose and fell, Red star of boyhood's fiery thought, Farewell.

They gave their lives, and I, my queen, Have given you of my life, Seeing your brave star burn high between Men's strife.

The strife that lightened round their spears Long since fell still: so long Hardly may hope to last in years My song.

But still through strife of time and thought Your light on me too fell: Queen, in whose name we sang or fought, Farewell.

II

There beats no heart on either border Wherethrough the north blasts blow But keeps your memory as a warder His beacon-fire aglow.

Long since it fired with love and wonder Mine, for whose April age Blithe midsummer made banquet under The shade of Hermitage.

Soft sang the burn's blithe notes, that gather Strength to ring true: And air and trees and sun and heather Remembered you.

Old border ghosts of fight or fairy Or love or teen, These they forgot, remembering Mary The Queen.

III

Queen once of Scots and ever of ours Whose sires brought forth for you Their lives to strew your way like flowers. Adieu.

Dead is full many a dead man's name Who died for you this long Time past: shall this too fare the same, My song?

But surely, though it die or live, Your face was worth All that a man may think to give On earth.

No darkness cast of years between Can darken you: Man's love will never bid my queen Adieu.

IV

Love hangs like light about your name As music round the shell: No heart can take of you a tame Farewell.

Yet, when your very face was seen, Ill gifts were yours for giving: Love gat strange guerdons of my queen When living.

O diamond heart unflawed and clear, The whole world's crowning jewel! Was ever heart so deadly dear So cruel?

Yet none for you of all that bled Grudged once one drop that fell: Not one to life reluctant said Farewell.

V

Strange love they have given you, love disloyal, Who mock with praise your name, To leave a head so rare and royal Too low for praise or blame.

You could not love nor hate, they tell us, You had nor sense nor sting: In God's name, then, what plague befell us To fight for such a thing?

"Some faults the gods will give," to fetter Man's highest intent: But surely you were something better Than innocent!

No maid that strays with steps unwary Through snares unseen, But one to live and die for; Mary, The Queen.

VI

Forgive them all their praise, who blot Your fame with praise of you: Then love may say, and falter not, Adieu.

Yet some you hardly would forgive Who did you much less wrong Once: but resentment should not live Too long.

They never saw your lip's bright bow, Your swordbright eyes, The bluest of heavenly things below The skies.

Clear eyes that love's self finds most like A swordblade's blue, A swordblade's ever keen to strike, Adieu.

VII

Though all things breathe or sound of fight That yet make up your spell, To bid you were to bid the light Farewell.

Farewell the song says only, being A star whose race is run: Farewell the soul says never, seeing The sun.

Yet, wellnigh as with flash of tears, The song must say but so That took your praise up twenty years Ago.

More bright than stars or moons that vary, Sun kindling heaven and hell, Here, after all these years, Queen Mary, Farewell.

HERSE