Part 2

HARD by the home of Dante’s infant life I saw a Yankee “Kake Walk” advertised; Within San Miniato’s pillared aisle A Japanese was peering unsurprised; Where Michelangelo set “Dawn” and “Night,” And her, most blest, whose softly sculptured smile Glows with a maiden’s and a mother’s light, A German Jew was nagging with his wife.

XX TO DANTE

THE Church divided and the Empire fell, Grave Dante, but thy verse in magic grows And charms men upward to the snow-white Rose Of heaven from the mire and grief of hell.

No lonely isle of dull forgetfulness Hides Beatrice within its shadowed gloom, For ’mid the petals of thy Rose’s bloom Time’s hand has set that pearl of loveliness.

Though patched and powdered poets could not taste Thy limpid sweetness, and exposed thy fame To meet the leering Frenchman’s cynic air,

Thy love was fair without brocade or paste, Thyself too great to need a gilded name; Thy Comedy and God survive Voltaire.

XXI TO PETRARCH

YES, Petrarch, we most certainly believe That you who wore your heart upon your sleeve, Did love your love for Laura, and the eye Of public fame, at which your sonnets fly, Like skyward larks that court the genial sun; And o’er the tears you treasured one by one You downward bent with all a statue’s grace To see reflections of your tearful face. But none redeemed by love will e’er consent To say you tasted of love’s sacrament.

XXII TO A LADY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

IN MEMORY OF METASTASIO

NICE, though your lips of coral Now are dust; And the schoolboy scans the moral Graven on your broken bust

In the gilt barocco chapel After Mass; Where ten coats with broidered lappel Bent when Nice used to pass.

Still perchance your spirit hovers Where the lute And the voices of your lovers Chimed, but now are gone and mute.

Where the lonely arbour’s hollow Shadier grows, And the butterflies can follow Fearlessly to kiss the rose.

And you smile because a poet À la mode Flouted you; and then, we know it, Wrote an abject palinode.

For your hands, though light as feathers, Held him tight: Love was made to last all weathers, Not to change with day and night.

XXIII THE “LIBERAL” DIVINE

THE “middle path” meets every need, The Stagirite and Buddha say; I won’t doubt more than half the creed Nor wear a costume wholly lay.

XXIV THE QUARREL

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF FRAGONARD

ON the elm tree she was swinging, Just beyond the hedge of yew; But she slowly ceased from singing, From her breast a pink she drew.

Buttoning his coat of satin, Off he strode towards the woods, Tartly quoting Virgil’s Latin, That a woman’s made of moods.

Long ago within God’s garden Both were wrapped in long lone sleep, Heeding not if hoar frosts harden, Or the autumn leaves fall deep.

Laugh not at the statue calling Phyllis with her marble muff, Nor the marble cupids sprawling On a cloud of powder puff.

Laugh not at his hermit fashions Nor the book unwarmed by hope; Say not that it shows the passions Of a stony misanthrope.

For they loved while they were living, Loved with love untold, unheard; Though they parted unforgiving, Each too proud to say a word.

XXV THE OLD FOUNTAIN

ONE gay glint of rose and silver flounces In a deep green dell, Where a streamlet bubbles down and bounces From a Triton’s mossy shell.

One more dance ere sunset on the mountain Laughing says, “Too late”; One sweet lute that tinkled with the fountain Called two hearts to court their fate.

Some small raindrops, just to tease the Triton, Mischievously fell; Some one spoke a jest that quenched the light on Eyes that he had long loved well.

That dark night he cursed the love he brought her, Though it made his soul; And she sobbed an echo to the water Brimming in the fountain bowl.

XXVI LOVE AND DEATH

ONCE toward a sunlit garden, laden With the lime trees’ scented breath, Came to watch a merry youth and maiden, Love and Death.

At their bosoms Love threw fragrant posies, Tossed them laughing low and blithe, In the background Death amid the roses Moved his scythe.

Ere the latest rose the path was strewing, Her sweet maiden soul was fled; He beside her grave his cheeks bedewing, Bent his head.

Sobbing Love then thought to give him pleasure, Bade his curse on Death attend; But the youth begged Death who held his treasure Be his friend.

Death as friend might give the old completeness Time could give to him no more, Death, not Love alone, the former sweetness Might restore.

Love then saw the youth was worthier loving, Dowered with a stronger grace; And with downcast eyelids shyly moving, Kissed Death’s face.

XXVII VIOLETS

WHERE burning tapers hold White suppliant hands from arms of gold Around the Host; there no one sets Sweet violets.

Fair roses droop and die In halls of dance and minstrelsy; But who within those walls has met The violet?

Where faintly smiles the sun Through chequered skies on beech groves dun, There hides in vales sequestered yet The violet.

Where I shall lie asleep, Some friend, perhaps, a tear will weep, And if our love knew no regrets, Strew violets.

XXVIII THE GARDENS OF THE SOUL

IN a restless land beside a river Stands a stone enclosure tall, Rich the finder is, and rich the giver Of the key to pierce that wall.

Once within, you drink the clearest pleasures, And your sorrow change for ease; Ancient bards enchant you with their measures, Sweetly sighs the Highland breeze.

Next amid the orange trees and cedars Bearded Homer deigns to roam, Musing tales of marching Argive leaders, And Ulysses welcomed home.

Here where daffodils their crowns are bending On a lawn of English green, Milton gravely sits to tell the ending Of angelic strifes unseen.

Here the almond bloom for ever blushes, And Italian fountains rise; While the wine of dawn their dewdrops flushes, Dante speaks of Paradise.

But beyond where any poet paces, Grows a gnarled grey olive grove, Where the furthest stars have veiled their faces, Weeping for eternal Love.

XXIX A MAN TO CHILDISH THINGS

WHERE are the domes of pure mysterious gold, And myriad angel wings in ordered flight My childish gaze could once at eve behold Before the mountains melted into night?

Where is the island, shy abode of bliss, Which seemed through summer haze to rise and float, The isle which merchant fleets could never kiss, But once stood still for Brendan’s hermit boat?

Where are my paladins with souls of snow, Whose swords were fashioned at no mortal forge, The men who rode where Arthur bade them go To meet the dragon in his dungeon gorge?

O happy, happy dreams, ye were no lies, No true apostle made me put away Such “childish things,” which mirrored to mine eyes Faith, Hope and Love. I call you back to stay.

XXX THE KNIGHT

HE was so courteous to the paynim horde, Men doubted if he served the Lord Or held the faith of Christ. They said he proudly scorned life’s sweetest prize, Who never played with sparkling eyes Or kept an evening tryst.

Their god of love was but Cupidity, Their Lord an idol vanity With mail below his vest: While he, true knight, believed in Christ alone, And though they thought his heart a stone, Made love a hero’s quest.

XXXI HOPES

TO have lived just like a man And done what one man can, Not basking like a dog in summer dust; Nor like a butterfly That flaunts and flutters by, Till showers have dimmed its silver wings with rust.

To have lightened some stiff load Of men upon the road— May some remember I am flesh and blood! To have dried some children’s tears, And slain some women’s fears That bid them crouch beneath a brooding flood.

To have known the throbbing stars, And traced the ancient scars That streams have ploughed upon the mountain side; To have sung songs passing sweet, And sung with lasting heat As pure as that of stars that burn and bide.

To have said the simply true, Although to preach the new Might win me prizes and the world’s caress; To have been misunderstood, If so the common good Might bear more harvest through my loneliness.

To have learnt that love is light In rain and fog and night, For eyes that sadly peer and feet that plod: To have found all life a song Of rapture calm and strong, And found the music of the song was God.

XXXII THE PATH

TO buzzing lecture halls his steps he bent, Where all the paths to God were well discussed, Or faith and reason weighed with balance just, Till he was dizzy with strong argument. He saw philosophers who shook their fists, And broke commandment nine; He saw the Sadducean alchemists Draw water out of wine; He saw the knife-eyed Pharisees Adjusting their phylacteries: But never found the gate where he could see The One in Three.

He watched the hills as dawn unlocked the day, And felt vibrating o’er the low green lea The breath of lilac and of hawthorn tree, While gold laburnums rocked each pendent spray. He saw the sun salute the moon afar, And felt their common soul; He heard the song of star to sister star Around the sky’s deep bowl; He watched the waves withdraw their foam, He watched the rivers wending home: He found the One, and yet he could not see The One in Three.

Still doubting he beheld a brother man, Whom he ignored and scorned to think akin; But now a sudden breath of love within Drove him to serve, and humbly he began. His hands that worked in love were torn with red, He shrank not at the sight, For he who suffered saw a Heart that bled Become his beacon-light. Thus brother to the Son of God With life from heaven on earth he trod: The Life, the Light, the Love, he knew to be The One in Three.

XXXIII THE CALL TO BETHLEHEM

SHEPHERDS, come to Bethlehem, Pluck yon bush of Christmas rose, Weave a dainty diadem.

From my flute with tuneful stem Music warbles as it flows, “Shepherds, come to Bethlehem.”

Lo, upon the mountain’s hem Ruby clouds above the snows Weave a dainty diadem.

Seek not proud Jerusalem, Where the empty temple shows; Shepherds, come to Bethlehem.

Christ without a crown or gem Lies on straw while winter blows; Weave a dainty diadem.

Christ will not our gift condemn; All our poverty He knows. Shepherds, come to Bethlehem, Weave a dainty diadem.

XXXIV A CHRISTMAS LULLABY

ADAPTED FROM THE SPANISH

STARS, Stay your bright amethyst cars, Flee not away, Wait till the day, Come and adore.

Flowers, Born in the morning’s first hours, Stars of the earth, Bloom for Christ’s birth, Come and adore.

Birds, Songs are far fresher than words, Christ is your Sun, Sing every one, Come and adore.

Streams, Whisper in tune with Christ’s dreams, Throw your sweet spells From crystal bells, Come and adore.

Breeze, Say to all lands and all seas, “This merry morn, Jesus is born, Come and adore.”

Child, Seeking the lost on the wild, Though Thou dost sleep, Smile on thy sheep Come to adore.

XXXV TO THE HOLY CHILD

AS PAINTED BY RAPHAEL

O LORD, Thyself hast taught that sight is not belief; And yet within Thine eyes I see eternity, The love which told the dying thief That he should rest in Paradise Is there, though Thou art still a Child at Mary’s knee; The joy of perfect sacrifice Is there, and that unfathomed grief In which our griefs have sunk like tears in one wide sea.

XXXVI MATER AMABILIS

AS PAINTED BY BOTTICELLI

MARY, on the Prince of peace thy gladness Gleams from radiant eyes; But their light is touched with passing sadness, Like our English summer skies.

Angels’ arms above thy head are holding Crowns of golden stars; But the baby hands thy breast enfolding Show to thee their future scars.

Lilies cense thee with their exhalations, But thy heart has guessed Slanders of the scoffing generations Who will call thee cursed, not blessed.

So when clouds of faint foreboding sorrow From an unknown sea Come to warn me of a broken morrow, Mother Mary, pray for me.

XXXVII SAINT STEPHEN

I SEE that I must die. O Christ, how shall I bear the cruel stones, E’en though there be a place among the thrones At thy right hand for me? Create again The very sinews of my soul: I ask not for an aureole, But strength to brave the pain.

Help me, for life is dear: The growing rapture of the summer morn, The cedared hills, and soft-cheeked roses born Within the cooling breath of Hermon’s snow, The rare reluctant shaded streams, The sea that sings, and weeps, and dreams; I love them: Thou dost know.

I loved my father’s faith: The synagogue with all its sacred gear, The feasts that guard the march of every year, The trumpets, lamps, and waving of the palms, The azure fringe on robes like milk, The yellow scrolls wrapped round with silk, The triumph of the Psalms.

I loved to preach the truth, To thrust and parry in a fair debate, To trace God’s dayspring in His nation’s fate, To lift up Christ, who dying broke death’s bands; I loved to give men joy for sighs, To win the thanks of widows’ eyes, And children’s trustful hands.

“The truth.” Yes, I will die. This chafing Sanhedrin shall not prevail To check me. They shall see the truth full-sail; They cannot sink truth, stone me though they can. Lord, I am ready. By thy grace No shade of fear shall cross my face, And I will play the man.

XXXVIII SAINT JOHN AT EPHESUS

MEN ask why I am left alone: My brother, James, and Peter, all are slain; Brave men who met the surging crimson deep With equal minds. And Mary fell asleep, His mother whom He gave me for my own. But I with anchored hope remain.

I loved Him. It is long ago Since I with Mary stood upon the hill Where His last breath rose up in Sacrifice, While tears fell earthward from our burning eyes, And Jews were gibing on the slope below. And yet I know He loves me still.

He loved me. And whene’er I dream Of sunsets changing into glassy gold The waters of the Galilean lake, Or see in thought the Temple portals take A pearly softness from the moonlight gleam, He speaks with me, as once of old.

I love Him, for He first loved me. He let me lean upon His holy breast, He brought me first to view His empty grave; He bade me learn that only love can save, And call no fire from heaven but charity. I work and wait, for He knows best.

That Rome which now oppresses us, And all this rout of grey idolatry Shall soon dissolve. For I can see the Light Which guides the sun disperse the Asian night: And straight above the reek of Ephesus There burns the Love which died for me.

XXXIX THE LITTLE CHILDREN

ALONG the ocean’s stormless side, Below the never setting sun, Where Innocent is every one, Meet all Christ’s babes that ever died.

Some home around their Monarch’s seat, Like doves that flutter to their rest; Within His arms they find their nest And wonder at His wounded feet.

Some make a goal of Mary’s knee, To which they run in joyous race; Then tell her that their mother’s face On earth was just like hers to see.

Some call the angels to their play Mid flowers of one unfading spring; In radiant wheels they move and sing, And learn the angels’ roundelay.

But some, I think, amid those bands, Remembering our ruder lore And love, towards this colder shore Lift speed-well eyes and rose-leaf hands.

XL THE CIRCUMCISION

MORE bright than rosebuds on the rounded base Of some veined alabaster urn, Wherein a lamp was set to burn And throw false smiles on Aphrodite’s face.

More bright than crowns of red anemones, Which every flushing Syrian year Saw laid upon Adonis’ bier By mourning maidens on adoring knees.

More brightly flashed the drops of precious blood, The rubies linked upon the shrine Of Christ the Babe, the Christ divine, To seal His body for the holy rood.

XLI THE RETURN OF THE MAGI

HOW they did laugh, when mounting our camels Three of us rode, obeying the light; Slowly we cut our hearts from the trammels Doubt flung around us that first wistful night. Only a star above wind and rain, Only a bloom on the passionless plain, Waving us onward; yet we were right. We thank Thee, Lord.

Oft we recalled that kindly derision, Measuring seas of measureless sand, Mocked by the streams and trees of the vision Moving and melting at magic’s command. Cheated and choked we quailed and burned, While the blast blew and the desert was churned, Slipping, it seemed, out of God’s own hand. We praise Thee, Lord.

Onward we rode, where silver-meshed rivers Sang to the birds which singing replied, Where the soft light through rose-bowers quivers, On past the voice of the bridegroom and bride. Seeking the desert and star again, Leaving the homesteads and fields of white grain Where the doves called us to dream and bide. We bless Thee, Lord.

Onward we went, past temples that brighten, Sepulchres hiding souls that are dead, Chambers where bought lips wearily whiten, Altars and pavements with hecatombs red. Onward we travelled to Bethlehem, Guided from Zion, the earth’s diadem, On to a stable and manger bed, To greet Thee, Lord.

Dimly His eyes flashed, laden with presage, Telling of strife and triumph to be; Gracious His lips, and glowed with a message Merciful, strong to set prisoners free. Lord, use our myrrh and our urns of gold; Fairer than children of men to behold, Thine is the sceptre and victory! We worship Thee.

XLII ATONEMENT

WHAT love it was that Thou shouldst choose to feel The chill of valleys where no dawns emerge To break the mist, and streams repeat the dirge For faith crushed like a pearl beneath man’s heel.

How just it was that Thou our Judge shouldst learn The force of taunts that goad us into sin, And slowly aureoled perfection win Through blackened hopes, and through the stripes that burn.

Thou who didst steel thy will to impotence, And wouldst not save Thyself, or take control Of force, make us so dead that we may live.

Thou God of sorrows, wash our penitence, Thou who wast naked, help each smitten soul, Christ strong to suffer, stronger to forgive.

XLIII CALVARY

AS some weak bird, tossed homeward by the gale, Is safely nested in the rocky scar That cleaves the curving beach, but hears afar The ocean writhing at the tempest’s flail,

So thou, my soul, hast reached the refuge hill That Pilate made a pleasance for his jest, And in Christ’s rose-red side hast found a rest, Borne half by passion, yet by conscious will.

O Lord, whose spirit waged so hard a fight, Scorn not the tainted thing beside thy heart As too unfit to feel that sacred glow;

But lest I ere forget how much I owe, Let not the vision utterly depart Of frenzied storm and all-engulfing night.

XLIV “THE DESERT SHALL BLOSSOM”

LONG, long ago He died, and yet He is not dead; From out His riven side and patient hands that bled Flows one unebbing tide, by love and pity fed.

God’s heart is satisfied, man’s eyes are upward led, And o’er the desert wide, the dew that’s downward shed Drawn from that flowing tide, forms flowers white and red.

XLV RESURRECTION

HOPE, last of all the angels, left the three Who with their woman’s courage watched Christ die; But Hope, when she had fled, Returned to plant in them one humble flower, The thought that in His grey sepulchral bower They three might strew around the Dead The alms of one adoring sympathy, And pray a last good-bye.

They sped in silence, but the sharp-fanged doubt Lurked in the path to mock their pungent store Of spices, hissing, “Nay, Ye cannot reach the Tenant of that gloom.” But when the dawn and they retouched the tomb, They found the stone was rolled away, And He, their Life who died, now stood without, Alive for evermore.

Thus when we seek our buried innocence With bitter myrrh and grey-leaved rosemary, And writhing doubts delay Our steps towards the tomb of our desire, Do Thou, O Lord, our musing eyes inspire To see the stone is rolled away, And find that self has thrown its grave-clothes hence And risen to live free.

XLVI THE ASCENSION

“LO, I am with you alway.” Thus He spake Girt with the zone of His disciples’ love, And straightway, like the nascent flames that wake Upon a placid hearth, He soars above. Forlorn they cannot move; Their eyes are voyaging to track the Friend Who promised to be with them till the end.

Once, the last once, His scar-gemmed Hand He lifts, The Hand that twined the children to His knee, Once downward bends the pitying Eye that sifts Our chaff and grain for all eternity: The blue immensity Robes its Creator in a cope of light, A cloud receives Him from their upturned sight.

Thou “alway with us”? Do the brakes of thorn No more entangle our tormented earth, Do women travail less when babes are born, Costs it less sweat for men to fight with dearth, Is life one Eden mirth, Moves there more laughter on the purple sea, Or richer gold across the rippling lea?

I care not: but we know, O Friend of friends, Thou throned above art by our weary side, The light that upward sailed with Thee descends To be our morn undimmed by night or tide; And Thou, eternal Guide, Art not content to lead us to thy goal, But buildest heaven in the broken soul.

XLVII A HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT

O SMILE upon the mirror of the world, O Bearer of the censer whence is curled The fragrant breath of watered trees at eve, And fires that slowly in the sunrise weave.

Thou art the Why within the universe, Thou fillest hidden caves which seas immerse, Thou sowest flowers upon the snow-bound hills, And teachest music to the listening rills.

Thou art the Guide of man’s supreme ascent From sullen shapes that through the forest bent, To minds that sift the sovran right from wrong And forms more perfect than a polished song.

The lily sceptre of sweet virgin love Is thine; the rosy coronet above The bridal brow is thine; from Thee the might Of infant eyes, like stars that calm the night.