Part 4

Long since, I lived beneath vast porticoes, By many ocean-sunsets tinged and fired, Where mighty pillars, in majestic rows, Seemed like basaltic caves when day expired.

The rolling surge that mirrored all the skies Mingled its music, turbulent and rich, Solemn and mystic, with the colours which The setting sun reflected in my eyes.

And there I lived amid voluptuous calms, In splendours of blue sky and wandering wave, Tended by many a naked, perfumed slave,

Who fanned my languid brow with waving palms. They were my slaves--the only care they had To know what secret grief had made me sad.

DON JUAN IN HADES.

When Juan sought the subterranean flood. And paid his obolus on the Stygian shore. Charon, the proud and sombre beggar, stood With one strong, vengeful hand on either oar.

With open robes and bodies agonised, Lost women writhed beneath that darkling sky; There were sounds as of victims sacrificed: Behind him all the dark was one long cry.

And Sganarelle, with laughter, claimed his pledge; Don Luis, with trembling finger in the air, Showed to the souls who wandered in the sedge The evil son who scorned his hoary hair.

Shivering with woe, chaste Elvira the while, Near him untrue to all but her till now, Seemed to beseech him for one farewell smile Lit with the sweetness of the first soft vow.

And clad in armour, a tall man of stone Held firm the helm, and clove the gloomy flood; But, staring at the vessel's track alone, Bent on his sword the unmoved hero stood.

THE LIVING FLAME.

They pass before me, these Eyes full of light, Eyes made magnetic by some angel wise; The holy brothers pass before my sight, And cast their diamond fires in my dim eyes.

They keep me from all sin and error grave, They set me in the path whence Beauty came; They are my servants, and I am their slave, And all my soul obeys the living flame.

Beautiful Eyes that gleam with mystic light As candles lighted at full noon; the sun Dims not your flame phantastical and bright.

You sing the dawn; they celebrate life done; Marching you chaunt my soul's awakening hymn, Stars that no sun has ever made grow dim!

CORRESPONDENCES.

In Nature's temple living pillars rise, And words are murmured none have understood. And man must wander through a tangled wood Of symbols watching him with friendly eyes.

As long-drawn echoes heard far-off and dim Mingle to one deep sound and fade away; Vast as the night and brilliant as the day, Colour and sound and perfume speak to him.

Some perfumes are as fragrant as a child, Sweet as the sound of hautboys, meadow-green; Others, corrupted, rich, exultant, wild,

Have all the expansion of things infinite: As amber, incense, musk, and benzoin, Which sing the sense's and the soul's delight.

THE FLASK.

There are some powerful odours that can pass Out of the stoppered flagon; even glass To them is porous. Oft when some old box Brought from the East is opened and the locks And hinges creak and cry; or in a press In some deserted house, where the sharp stress Of odours old and dusty fills the brain; An ancient flask is brought to light again, And forth the ghosts of long-dead odours creep. There, softly trembling in the shadows, sleep A thousand thoughts, funereal chrysalides, Phantoms of old the folding darkness hides, Who make faint flutterings as their wings unfold, Rose-washed and azure-tinted, shot with gold.

A memory that brings languor flutters here: The fainting eyelids droop, and giddy Fear Thrusts with both hands the soul towards the pit Where, like a Lazarus from his winding-sheet, Arises from the gulf of sleep a ghost Of an old passion, long since loved and lost. So I, when vanished from man's memory Deep in some dark and sombre chest I lie. An empty flagon they have cast aside, Broken and soiled, the dust upon my pride, Will be your shroud, beloved pestilence! The witness of your might and virulence, Sweet poison mixed by angels; bitter cup Of life and death my heart has drunken up!

REVERSIBILITY.

Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief? Shame and remorse and sobs and weary spite, And the vague terrors of the fearful night That crush the heart up like a crumpled leaf? Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?

Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate? With hands clenched in the shade and tears of gall, When Vengeance beats her hellish battle-call, And makes herself the captain of our fate, Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate?

Angel of health, did ever you know pain, Which like an exile trails his tired footfalls The cold length of the white infirmary walls, With lips compressed, seeking the sun in vain? Angel of health, did ever you know pain?

Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know? Know you the fear of age, the torment vile Of reading secret horror in the smile Of eyes your eyes have loved since long ago? Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know?

Angel of happiness, and joy, and light, Old David would have asked for youth afresh From the pure touch of your enchanted flesh; I but implore your prayers to aid my plight, Angel of happiness, and joy, and light.

THE EYES OF BEAUTY.

You are a sky of autumn, pale and rose; But all the sea of sadness in my blood Surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose, Salt with the memory of the bitter flood.

In vain your hand glides my faint bosom o'er, That which you seek, beloved, is desecrate By woman's tooth and talon; ah, no more Seek in me for a heart which those dogs ate.

It is a ruin where the jackals rest, And rend and tear and glut themselves and slay-- A perfume swims about your naked breast!

Beauty, hard scourge of spirits, have your way! With flame-like eyes that at bright feasts have flared Burn up these tatters that the beasts have spared!

SONNET OF AUTUMN.

They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes: "Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?" Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;

And will not bare the secret of their shame To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long, Nor their black legend write for thee in flame! Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.

Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat, Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow, And I too well his ancient arrows know:

Crime, horror, folly. O pale marguerite, Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low, O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.

THE REMORSE OF THE DEAD.

O shadowy Beauty mine, when thou shalt sleep In the deep heart of a black marble tomb; When thou for mansion and for bower shalt keep Only one rainy cave of hollow gloom;

And when the stone upon thy trembling breast, And on thy straight sweet body's supple grace, Crushes thy will and keeps thy heart at rest, And holds those feet from their adventurous race;

Then the deep grave, who shares my reverie, (For the deep grave is aye the poet's friend) During long nights when sleep is far from thee,

Shall whisper: "Ah, thou didst not comprehend The dead wept thus, thou woman frail and weak"-- And like remorse the worm shall gnaw thy cheek.

THE GHOST.

Softly as brown-eyed Angels rove I will return to thy alcove. And glide upon the night to thee, Treading the shadows silently.

And I will give to thee, my own, Kisses as icy as the moon, And the caresses of a snake Cold gliding in the thorny brake.

And when returns the livid morn Thou shalt find all my place forlorn And chilly, till the falling night.

Others would rule by tenderness Over thy life and youthfulness, But I would conquer thee by fright!

TO A MADONNA.

(_An Ex-Voto in the Spanish taste_.)

Madonna, mistress. I would build for thee An altar deep in the sad soul of me; And in the darkest corner of my heart, From mortal hopes and mocking eyes apart, Carve of enamelled blue and gold a shrine For thee to stand erect in, Image divine! And with a mighty Crown thou shalt be crowned Wrought of the gold of my smooth Verse, set round With starry crystal rhymes; and I will make, O mortal maid, a Mantle for thy sake, And weave it of my jealousy, a gown Heavy, barbaric, stiff, and weighted down With my distrust, and broider round the hem Not pearls, but all my tears in place of them. And then thy wavering, trembling robe shall be All the desires that rise and fall in me From mountain-peaks to valleys of repose, Kissing thy lovely body's white and rose. For thy humiliated feet divine, Of my Respect I'll make thee Slippers fine Which, prisoning them within a gentle fold,

Shall keep their imprint like a faithful mould. And if my art, unwearying and discreet, Can make no Moon of Silver for thy feet To have for Footstool, then thy heel shall rest Upon the snake that gnaws within my breast, Victorious Queen of whom our hope is born! And thou shalt trample down and make a scorn Of the vile reptile swollen up with hate. And thou shalt see my thoughts, all consecrate, Like candles set before thy flower-strewn shrine, O Queen of Virgins, and the taper-shine Shall glimmer star-like in the vault of blue, With eyes of flame for ever watching you. While all the love and worship in my sense Will be sweet smoke of myrrh and frankincense. Ceaselessly up to thee, white peak of snow, My stormy spirit will in vapours go!

And last, to make thy drama all complete, That love and cruelty may mix and meet, I, thy remorseful torturer, will take All the Seven Deadly Sins, and from them make In darkest joy, Seven Knives, cruel-edged and keen, And like a juggler choosing, O my Queen, That spot profound whence love and mercy start, I'll plunge them all within thy panting heart!

THE SKY.

Where'er he be, on water or on land, Under pale suns or climes that flames enfold; One of Christ's own, or of Cythera's band, Shadowy beggar or Crœsus rich with gold;

Citizen, peasant, student, tramp; whate'er His little brain may be, alive or dead; Man knows the fear of mystery everywhere, And peeps, with trembling glances, overhead.

The heaven above? A strangling cavern wall; The lighted ceiling of a music-hall Where every actor treads a bloody soil--

The hermit's hope; the terror of the sot; The sky: the black lid of the mighty pot Where the vast human generations boil!

SPLEEN.

I'm like some king in whose corrupted veins Flows aged blood; who rules a land of rains; Who, young in years, is old in all distress; Who flees good counsel to find weariness Among his dogs and playthings, who is stirred Neither by hunting-hound nor hunting-bird; Whose weary face emotion moves no more E'en when his people die before his door. His favourite Jester's most fantastic wile Upon that sick, cruel face can raise no smile; The courtly dames, to whom all kings are good, Can lighten this young skeleton's dull mood No more with shameless toilets. In his gloom Even his lilied bed becomes a tomb. The sage who takes his gold essays in vain To purge away the old corrupted strain, His baths of blood, that in the days of old The Romans used when their hot blood grew cold, Will never warm this dead man's bloodless pains, For green Lethean water fills his veins.

THE OWLS.

Under the overhanging yews, The dark owls sit in solemn state. Like stranger gods; by twos and twos Their red eyes gleam. They meditate.

Motionless thus they sit and dream Until that melancholy hour When, with the sun's last fading gleam, The nightly shades assume their power.

From their still attitude the wise Will learn with terror to despise All tumult, movement, and unrest;

For he who follows every shade, Carries the memory in his breast, Of each unhappy journey made.

BIEN LOIN D'ICI.

Here is the chamber consecrate, Wherein this maiden delicate, And enigmatically sedate,

Fans herself while the moments creep, Upon her cushions half-asleep, And hears the fountains plash and weep.

Dorothy's chamber undefiled. The winds and waters sing afar Their song of sighing strange and wild To lull to sleep the petted child.

From head to foot with subtle care, Slaves have perfumed her delicate skin With odorous oils and benzoin. And flowers faint in a corner there.

MUSIC.

Music doth oft uplift me like a sea Towards my planet pale, Then through dark fogs or heaven's infinity I lift my wandering sail.

With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee, And through the cordage wail, I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me Beneath her sombre veil.

I feel the tremblings of all passions known To ships before the breeze; Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown

I pass the abysmal seas That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair Of my despair!

CONTEMPLATION.

Thou, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still, The eve is thine which even now drops down, To carry peace or care to human will, And in a misty veil enfolds the town.

While the vile mortals of the multitude, By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on, Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood-- Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone

Far from them. Lo, see how the vanished years, In robes outworn lean over heaven's rim; And from the water, smiling through her tears,

Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim; And in the east, her long shroud trailing light, List, O my grief, the gentle steps of Night.

TO A BROWN BEGGAR-MAID.

White maiden with the russet hair, Whose garments, through their holes, declare That poverty is part of you, And beauty too.

To me, a sorry bard and mean, Your youthful beauty, frail and lean, With summer freckles here and there, Is sweet and fair.

Your sabots tread the roads of chance, And not one queen of old romance Carried her velvet shoes and lace With half your grace.

In place of tatters far too short Let the proud garments worn at Court Fall down with rustling fold and pleat About your feet;

In place of stockings, worn and old, Let a keen dagger all of gold Gleam in your garter for the eyes Of roués wise;

Let ribbons carelessly untied Reveal to us the radiant pride Of your white bosom purer far Than any star;

Let your white arms uncovered shine. Polished and smooth and half divine; And let your elfish fingers chase With riotous grace

The purest pearls that softly glow. The sweetest sonnets of Belleau, Offered by gallants ere they fight For your delight;

And many fawning rhymers who Inscribe their first thin book to you Will contemplate upon the stair Your slipper fair;

And many a page who plays at cards, And many lords and many bards, Will watch your going forth, and burn For your return;

And you will count before your glass More kisses than the lily has; And more than one Valois will sigh When you pass by.

But meanwhile you are on the tramp, Begging your living in the damp, Wandering mean streets and alleys o'er, From door to door;

And shilling bangles in a shop Cause you with eager eyes to stop, And I, alas, have not a son To give to you.

Then go, with no more ornament, Pearl, diamond, or subtle scent, Than your own fragile naked grace And lovely face.

THE SWAN.

Andromache, I think of you! The stream, The poor, sad mirror where in bygone days Shone all the majesty of your widowed grief, The lying Simoïs flooded by your tears, Made all my fertile memory blossom forth As I passed by the new-built Carrousel. Old Paris is no more (a town, alas, Changes more quickly than man's heart may change); Yet in my mind I still can see the booths; The heaps of brick and rough-hewn capitals; The grass; the stones all over-green with moss; The _débris_, and t&e square-set heaps of tiles.

There a menagerie was once outspread; And there I saw, one morning at the hour When toil awakes beneath the cold, clear sky, And the road roars upon the silent air, A swan who had escaped his cage, and walked On the dry pavement with his webby feet, And trailed his spotless plumage on the ground.

And near a waterless stream the piteous swan Opened his beak, and bathing in the dust His nervous wings, he cried (his heart the while Filled with a vision of his own fair lake): "O water, when then wilt thou come in rain? Lightning, when wilt thou glitter?"

Sometimes yet I see the hapless bird--strange, fatal myth-- Like him that Ovid writes of, lifting up Unto the cruelly blue, ironic heavens, With stretched, convulsive neck a thirsty face, As though he sent reproaches up to God!

II.

Paris may change; my melancholy is fixed. New palaces, and scaffoldings, and blocks, And suburbs old, are symbols all to me Whose memories are as heavy as a stone. And so, before the Louvre, to vex my soul, The image came of my majestic swan With his mad gestures, foolish and sublime, As of an exile whom one great desire Gnaws with no truce. And then I thought of you, Andromache! torn from your hero's arms; Beneath the hand of Pyrrhus in his pride;

Bent o'er an empty tomb in ecstasy; Widow of Hector--wife of Helenus! And of the negress, wan and phthisical, Tramping the mud, and with her haggard eyes Seeking beyond the mighty walls of fog The absent palm-trees of proud Africa; Of all who lose that which they never find; Of all who drink of tears; all whom grey grief Gives suck to as the kindly wolf gave suck; Of meagre orphans who like blossoms fade. And one old Memory like a crying horn Sounds through the forest where my soul is lost.... I think of sailors on some isle forgotten; Of captives; vanquished ... and of many more.

THE SEVEN OLD MEN.

O swarming city, city full of dreams, Where in full day the spectre walks and speaks; Mighty colossus, in your narrow veins My story flows as flows the rising sap.

One morn, disputing with my tired soul, And like a hero stiffening all my nerves, I trod a suburb shaken by the jar Of rolling wheels, where the fog magnified The houses either side of that sad street, So they seemed like two wharves the ebbing flood Leaves desolate by the river-side. A mist, Unclean and yellow, inundated space-- A scene that would have pleased an actor's soul. Then suddenly an aged man, whose rags Were yellow as the rainy sky, whose looks Should have brought alms in floods upon his head, Without the misery gleaming in his eye, Appeared before me; and his pupils seemed To have been washed with gall; the bitter frost Sharpened his glance; and from his chin a beard Sword-stiff and ragged, Judas-like stuck forth. He was not bent but broken: his backbone Made a so true right angle with his legs, That, as he walked, the tapping stick which gave The finish to the picture, made him seem Like some infirm and stumbling quadruped Or a three-legged Jew. Through snow and mud He walked with troubled and uncertain gait, As though his sabots trod upon the dead, Indifferent and hostile to the world.

His double followed him: tatters and stick And back and eye and beard, all were the same; Out of the same Hell, indistinguishable, These centenarian twins, these spectres odd, Trod the same pace toward some end unknown. To what fell complot was I then exposed! Humiliated by what evil chance? For as the minutes one by one went by Seven times I saw this sinister old man Repeat his image there before my eyes!

Let him who smiles at my inquietude, Who never trembled at a fear like mine, Know that in their decrepitude's despite These seven old hideous monsters had the mien Of beings immortal. Then, I thought, must I, Undying, contemplate the awful eighth; Inexorable, fatal, and ironic double; Disgusting Phoenix, father of himself And his own son! In terror then I turned My back upon the infernal band, and fled To my own place, and closed my door; distraught And like a drunkard who sees all things twice, With feverish troubled spirit, chilly and sick, Wounded by mystery and absurdity!

In vain my reason tried to cross the bar, The whirling storm but drove her back again; And my soul tossed, and tossed, an outworn wreck, Mastless, upon a monstrous, shoreless sea.

THE LITTLE OLD WOMEN.

Deep in the tortuous folds of ancient towns, Where all, even horror, to enchantment turns, I watch, obedient to my fatal mood, For the decrepit, strange and charming beings, The dislocated monsters that of old Were lovely women--Laïs or Eponine! Hunchbacked and broken, crooked though they be, Let us still love them, for they still have souls. They creep along wrapped in their chilly rags, Beneath the whipping of the wicked wind, They tremble when an omnibus rolls by, And at their sides, a relic of the past, A little flower-embroidered satchel hangs. They trot about, most like to marionettes; They drag themselves, as does a wounded beast; Or dance unwillingly as a clapping bell Where hangs and swings a demon without pity. Though they be broken they have piercing eyes, That shine like pools where water sleeps at night; The astonished and divine eyes of a child Who laughs at all that glitters in the world.

Have you not seen that most old women's shrouds Are little like the shroud of a dead child? Wise Death, in token of his happy whim, Wraps old and young in one enfolding sheet. And when I see a phantom, frail and wan, Traverse the swarming picture that is Paris, It ever seems as though the delicate thing Trod with soft steps towards a cradle new. And then I wonder, seeing the twisted form, How many times must workmen change the shape Of boxes where at length such limbs are laid? These eyes are wells brimmed with a million tears; Crucibles where the cooling metal pales-- Mysterious eyes that are strong charms to him Whose life-long nurse has been austere Disaster.

II.

The love-sick vestal of the old "Frasciti"; Priestess of Thalia, alas! whose name Only the prompter knows and he is dead; Bygone celebrities that in bygone days The Tivoli o'ershadowed in their bloom; All charm me; yet among these beings frail Three, turning pain to honey-sweetness, said To the Devotion that had lent them wings: "Lift me, O powerful Hippogriffe, to the skies"-- One by her country to despair was driven; One by her husband overwhelmed with grief; One wounded by her child, Madonna-like; Each could have made a river with her tears.

III.