Part 3
Give over thy pursuing, Age! Fearest thou not my lover’s rage? For he is young and strong of limb, Thou canst not stand a bout with him. Ah, surely he will laugh to see So wan a suitor wooing me. Then with wild scorn his heart will swell And he will fling thee back to hell.
O Love, that stronger art than Death, Enfold me from the burning breath Of Age that has grown amorous, That sears and blasts me. Even thus, Men say, his passionate embrace Spoils maids and flowers of their grace, And every woman’s fate is cast To be his paramour at last. And so all lovely things are made Shameful, and in the ashes laid, To die alone, uncared for. Such Is the pollution of his touch.
Stars that have shone since Time began, Rivers that saw the birth of man, And mountains that are fair and green, And were, when Helen was a queen, White dreams that never can grow old, Stories of love and glory told By Homer once, and ballads sung Eons ago--ye still are young. Tell me the secret of your youth. Can any weeping fill with ruth Age, that is harsh and pitiless?
Nay, they are blind to my distress. They have not feared the grasping hand Of Age, and cannot understand. Love saw my whitened hair and laughed And bid me drain my bitter draught. While in my lover’s startled eyes A lurking terror strangely lies. There is no place in which to hide When Age comes seeking for his bride.
PRAYER TO BRAGI
The world-rocking roar of the thunder, the red lightning’s death-dealing flash, The wind that rends mountains asunder, the tempest’s sharp, blood-bringing lash, Beneficent silvery rivers that stream from the dream-laden moon, And crimsoning fire that delivers bound life at the sun’s freeing noon; These swell like a marvellous ocean, all throbbing and leaping and strong, O Bragi, in thy magic potion of pain and of sweetness and song!
The life-blood of Kvasir was taken, sharp heart-seeking knives made him bleed, But still shall his spirit awaken in singers who drink of thy mead. The honey from forests of flowers, poured out as the milk from the kine, It flows through the undying hours from lips that are wet with thy wine. O Bragi, dear master of singing, song-thirsty I beg for thy dole! To thy knees, a suppliant clinging, I pray for a draught from thy bowl.
IMITATION OF RICHEPIN’S BALLADE OF THE BEGGARS’ KING
Hey, come to me, you slipshod race, Picklocks and squealing bagpipe crew, Come, strumpet, knave and monkey-face, Come loafers, I’m the lad for you! Come ragged cloak and tattered shoe, Your wild, hot liberty I sing, For I am of your nation, too, The poet is the beggars’ king.
You playthings of the copper’s mace, You toys of wind and rain and dew, You whom the yelping watchdogs chase, Whom blows and noisome ills pursue, Whose paltry rags the wind strikes through As through some rotten paper thing, To whom nor want nor woe is new, The poet is the beggars’ king.
You hoboes, whom the sun’s embrace Has burned to darkly golden hue, You trollops, full of love and grace, Whom half a hundred lovers woo, You little crawling babies who Just wear your hides for costuming, Old toothless men with noses blue, The poet is the beggars’ king.
L’ENVOI
My subjects all and vassals true, Come, give me royal welcoming, May booze be plenty, bulls be few, The poet is the beggars’ king.
LOVE AND THE FOWLER’S BOY
(Bion IV, 14.)
Lo, the fowler’s little lad, Through the woodland straying, Sight of winged Love hath had In the branches playing.
“Ah,” he cries, “a bonnie prey!” Sets his bow to wing him. Cupid blows the dart away That to earth would bring him.
Now the boy in angry woe Casts away his quiver To his master straight doth go And the tale deliver.
Saith the sage, “Nay, not for thee Such a bird to harry. From the haunted forest flee Where such creatures tarry.
“Though it now escape thy dart Let not tears be flowing, It will light upon thy heart Ere thy beard be growing.”
THE WAY OF LOVE
(An Old Legend.)
When darkness hovers over earth And day gives place to night, Then lovers see the Milky Way Gleam mystically bright, And calling it the Way of Love They hail it with delight.
She was a lady wondrous fair A right brave lover he, And sooth they suffered grievous pain And sorrowed mightily, For they were parted during life By leagues of land and sea.
She died. Then Death came to the man. He met him joyfully, And said, “Thou Angel Death, well met! Quick, do thy will with me, That I may haste to greet my love In Heaven’s company.”
Now on one side of Heaven he dwelt And on the other, she. And broad between them stretched sheer space Whereon no way might be, The empty, yawning, awful depth, Unplumbed infinity.
The deathless spheric melody Came gently to his ear, And dulcet notes, the harmonies Of Seraphs chanting near. He heeded not for listening His lady’s voice to hear.
The Saints and Martyrs round him ranged A goodly company, The Virgin, robed in radiance, The Holy Trinity. He heeded not, but strained his eyes His lady’s face to see.
At last from far across the void Her voice came, faint and sweet. The bright-hued walls of Paradise Did the glad sound repeat; The distant stars on which she stood Shone bright beneath her feet.
“Dear Love,” she said, “Oh, come to me! I cannot see your face. O will not Lord Christ grant to us To cross this sea of space?” Then thrilled his heart with Love’s own might. He answered, by Love’s grace.
“The world is wide, and Heaven is wide, From me to thee is far, Alas! across Infinity No passageways there are. Sweetheart, I’ll make my way to thee, I’ll build it, star by star!”
Through all the curving vault of sky His lusty blows rang out. He smote the jewel-studded walls And with a mighty shout He tore the gleaming masonry And posts that stood about.
He strove to build a massive bridge That should the chasm span. With heart upheld by hope and love His great task he began, And toiled and labored doughtily To work his God-like plan.
He took the heavy beams of gold That round him he did see; The beryl, jacinth, sardius, That shone so brilliantly, And no fair jewel would he spare So zealously worked he.
He stole the gorgeous tinted stuffs Whereof are sunsets made, And his rude, grasping, eager hands On little stars he laid; To rob God’s sacred treasure-house He was no whit afraid.
And so for centuries he worked. Across the void at last A bridge of precious mold did stand Completed, strong and fast. So now the faithful lovers met And all their woe was past.
But soon a shining angel guard Sped to the throne of gold And said, “Lord, see yon new-made bridge, A mortal, overbold, Has built it, scorning thy desire!” Straightway the tale he told.
Then said: “Now, Master, Thou mayst see The thing that has been wrought. Speak, then, the word, stretch forth Thine hand That with the speed of thought This poor presumptuous work may fall And crumble into naught.”
God looked upon the angel then And on the bridge below. Then with His smile of majesty He said: “Let all things know, This bridge, which has by Love been built, I will not overthrow.”
When darkness hovers over earth And day gives place to night, Then lovers see the Milky Way Gleam mystically bright, And calling it the Way of Love, They hail it with delight.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.