Part 5

And, sitting by the still translucent water, In pleasaunce sweet we quaffed the liquid cold; Lo! as we drank, there passed a fairer daughter Of Beauty than Fidessa. Then the old— Yet never old, immortal song of glory, Breathing of summer bower and emerald lea, And fountain bubbling coldly—Spenser’s story Thrilled all our brains to living ecstasy: Such power had maiden floating onward maidenly.

And pondered we, above that placid wave, How we were thrown upon a colder day; Yet, by the sword of Arthur! quite as brave, As wondrous willing for the haughty fray As Arthegal and Guyon. So we rose And joined our hands in fervent heat, and swore By old Renown’s endeavours, and by those Who battled well and won, to dream no more, But through a sea of fears to struggle for the shore.

I think no good of him who takes his ease, As pigeon-livered in the human game As Braggadocio: on the tranquil seas All ships sail nobly; but whoe’er is tame To face the waves when fringed with windy spray, Is but a coward. Let him live, then rot! No man shall speak of him, no pilgrim lay A twist of wild-flowers on the common spot That marks his meagre dust—the poltroon is forgot.

But, good friend! we shall fight. Even he who fails In a great cause is noble. Time will show The best and worst of it; and while it hails Some worthy Song-kings of the long-ago, Perhaps our names will echo with the rest, And in no feebleness. Meantime, oh fight! In the thick hurry of the battle press’d, Clothed on with resolution, the soul’s might— Be Hector or Achilles!—God defend the right!

The Two Streams.

O cool the summer woods Of dear Gartshore, where bloom Soft clouds of white anemones Among their own perfume. And clear the little brooklet, Singing an endless lay, Winding its nameless waters Close by the white highway. And here in sweet sensation, And soul-uneasy swoon, I’ve lain for many a golden Hour of a summer noon. The cushats _crooned_ around me Their murmuring amorous song; And in a brooding drowsiness, The echoes swooned along; Till all the sweet sensations Grew into utter pain, And I was fain to wander All sadly home again. There have been brotherhoods in song, And human friendships true; There have been lovers unto death, Yes, and right many too. But never in the march of time, And ne’er in mortal knowing, From history or nobler rhyme, Hath there been such constant flowing: One from mountains far away, One from glades of emerald shining, Flowing, flowing evermore For a delicate combining. If upon a summer’s day, When the air is blue and bracing, You for Merkland take your way, Sweet uneasy fancies chasing; You may see the famous grove— If not famous, then most surely Ripe for fame, which is but love— Where they mingle most demurely. Not in song and babbling play Which no poet could unravel; But in tender simple way, On a bed of golden gravel. Where I sit I see them now,— Bothlin with her endless winding From a mountain’s purple brow, Sacred contemplation finding; In still nooks of shady rest, Gleaming greenly ’neath the holly: Youth, she says, is often blest With a touch of melancholy. Luggie from the orient fields Wiser is, yet hath a beauty, Which the snowy conscience yields To the softened face of duty. All she does bespeaks a grace, Yet the grace hath that of sadness We behold in many a face, Where we had expected gladness. But when Bothlin meets her there, See the change to sudden glory! Surely such another pair Never met in classic story. I could sing for half a day, And my spirit never weary Fashioning the vernal lay With a linnet’s impulse cheery. But some night in leafy June, You the place yourself may see; When the light is in the moon, Like the passion that’s in me.

Evening.

The evening now is still and calm, As if sad Eloïsa’s soul Had breathed a spiritual balm Throughout the softened whole. Within the azure of the sky There shineth not a single star; But in a soft serenity The Crescent cometh from afar. In darker lines the firs that shade The house of Merkland round and round, Come out, and from the fragrant glade No liquid notes resound: I heard the birds this live-long day, In sweet unwrinkled blending, As if this merry month of May Should never have an ending. O could I utter thoughts that rise, O could I sing the tender Softness of the summer skies, In all their virgin splendour! O crescent Moon, like pearlëd bark To ferry souls to glory; O silent deepening of the dark O’er vale and promontory! Alas, that I should live, and be A churl in soul, while slowly God makes the solemn eve, and breathes A calm thro’ hearts unholy!

The Love-Tryst.

Seven sycamores of wondrous fairness, smooth, And mealy green of trunk, and murmurous In multitudinous sun-twinkling leaves, This valley grace. Three fairer than the rest, Which in the silent worship of my heart I fondly call the brothers of Bridgend, O’er cottage floors when doors are wide for heat And often on the face of cradled child, Throw dusky shadows. And when lenient winds Blow motion, the cool shadows flicker, and play Upon the floors, and glimpse the countenance Of the sweet baby, till the mother laughs, And bending downward, kisses. But of all The trees that ever tufted hill or vale, That ever took the breeze or sheltered nest, Or rung with flowing melody of birds, The strangest and the dearest, best and first, Waves audibly upon a windy hill Above the Luggie. In the front of Spring, When the first crocus gleams among the grass, One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare: And when the Autumn violet hath lost Its fragrance, and the meadow-hay is mown, One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare. There are two trees, whose marriageable boughs Twine, each with each, and throw a common shade, A chestnut and an elm. The former opes Its oily buds whene’er the teeming south Breathes life and warm intenerating balm, But fades in early Autumn; while supreme In vigorous development, the elm Full-foliaged glimmers till October’s end. At the twin roots and facing the rich west A summer seat is rustically carved, A sylvan shelter from the mid-day sun: But nor in mid-day, nor when decent eve Gather her purples have I rested there; But when thro’ crisp and fleecy clouds the moon O’er the soft orient sheds a milder dawn, Then tripping up the dewy lea, with step Light as an antelope, a maiden came, And all her radiance in my bosom laid; And on this seat, while high among the leaves Rain murmured, and the glory of the moon Was dimmed, I whispered all my passion-tale. Ah me, ah me! her silken hair down-slid, Her smooth comb dropt among the grass, and both Stooped searching, and her burning cheek met mine: And starting suddenly upward, with her face Rosed to the beating temples, meek she gazed, Half sad, and the blue languish of her eyes Drooped tearful. And in madness and delight, I with my left arm zoned her little waist, And with my right hand smoothed the silken hair From her fair brow, snow-cold; and, by the doves That bill and coo in Venus’ pearly car! There was a touch of lips. Then creeping close Into my bosom like a little thing That was confused, she cradled pantingly. Thus, while the rain was murmuring overhead, And the out-passioned moon thro’ vaporous gloom Dipt queenly, whispered I my perilous tale. Ah me, ah me! a tender answer came; For with her softling finger-tips she touched My hand, warm laid upon her heart, and pressed A meek approval with averted face. O poet-maker, darling love, sweet love, Awakener of manhood, and the life Of life. But let me not like talking fool Prate all thy virgin whiteness, all thy sweet Deliciousness, for thou art living yet! And as the rose that opens to the sun Its downy leaves, scents sweetest at the core, So all thy loveliness is but the robe That clothes a maiden chastity of soul.

O hasten, hasten down your azure road, And darken all the golden zones of heaven, Bright Sun, for I am weary for my love.

An Epistle to a Friend.

Ah well-a-day, for human plans, And Fancy’s bright creations, With all the purple-wingéd brood Of young imaginations! I’ve tried, this weary winter’s day, All poignant cares to banish, By quaffing goblets, rosy-brimm’d, Of dear poetic Rhenish.

Not all the sweets of Castaly— That river Heliconian, Adorn’d with swans of queenly snow, Of ancient brood Strymonian; Not all the maiden Muses nine, With tresses loosely flowing, Could magnetise a single line, Or set my quill a-going;

Until I thought of thee, dear friend— Best loved, though long unheeded; Then forth the virgin pages came, And quick my fingers speeded. This very hour I’ll make amends, This lonely hour quiescent, When all the stars are in the blue, ’Mid lustre irridescent.

And, from the slopes I know right well, All shagg’d with bending thistle, The homeless wind comes with a swell, And enters with a whistle; Till brightlier glows the cosy fire, And cheerier my bosom, In thinking on the shivering woods, And vales without a blossom.

You know the Luggie, natal stream!— On earth to us none dearer— Where Lady Luna, mirror’d, burns, With all her handmaids near her. The time may come when haughty Fame With laurel shall console us; Then we shall halo it with song Till it outflow Pactolus!

The woods, the vales, the hawthorn dales, The hoary hamlet Caurnie Shall be of goodlier report Than genius-hallowed Ferney. And though I speak like boaster vain, I speak not without thinking; Already on thy noble brow I see a chaplet twinkling!

Heaven knows! amid the march of Time I am a simple dreamer; Can see more in the patient moon— Yon radiant crescent-gleamer— Than all the banner’d pomp of war, Or progress politician; Than all the mockeries of rank, And haughtiness patrician.

No golden key, however bright, Can pass the fragrant portal Of Fame’s grand temple-dome, or make A simpleton immortal. Then what is wealth to our desire? (A burning tear-drop pays us) A rushlight to the morning star, To Homer but a Crœsus.

Then, Willie, though a careless dog, In brotherhood excuse me, Nor with neglect, and haughty look, Most wantonly abuse me. I’ve suffer’d much and suffer’d long, Dear heart! since last we ponder’d On gentle love, within that hall Where ancient ivies wander’d.

Nor think my love one jot the less— Than love I sought in passion— Because I thus have treated thee In unpoetic fashion. Let this suffice for evermore: I plead a self-conviction, And thy frank spirit never shall Increase my sad affliction.

Then sure I’ll see thee yet again, Before another morrow Steals up the east—shall see thee, friend! In a delightful sorrow. With silent gratitude, I speak A blessing on our meeting, And may the light of friendship touch Our spirits at the greeting!

A Vision of Venice.

Behold! a waking vision crowns my soul With beatific radiance, and the light Of shining hope;—a golden-memoried dream That clings unto my youth, as clung the strange Leonine phantom to that mystic man, Lean Paracelsus. It has grown with me Like destiny, or that which seems to be My destiny, ambition: and its glow Inflames my fancy, as if some clear star Had burst in silvery light within my brain. From the smooth hyaline of that far sea The pictured Adriatic rises, fair As dream, a kingly-built and tower’d town; Column and arch and architrave instinct With delicatest beauty; overwrought With tracery of interlacèd leaves For ever blooming on white marble, hush’d In everlasting summer, windless, cold: The city of the Doges!

From the calm Transparent waters float some thrilling sounds Of Amphionic music, and the words Are Tasso’s, where he passions for his love, That lady Florentine so lily-smooth, Clothed on with haughtiness!

At the black stair Of palace rising shadowy from the wave, Two singing gondolieri wait a freight Of loveliness. A tremulous woman, robed In dazzling satin, and whose dimpled arms, And milky heaving breasts of living snow Shine through their veil diaphanous, floats down From the wide portal; and the ivory prow Of the soft-cushion’d gondola (as she Steps lightly from the marble to her place) Dips, rises, dips again; then through the blue Swift glides into the sunset.

Oh, the glow Of that rich sunset dims whate’er I see In this my own dear valley! O’er the hills— Those craggy Euganean hills, whose peaks Wedge the clear crystalline—a blazonry Of clouds pavilion’d, folded, interwound Inextricably, load the breezeless west With awe and glory. The effulgence gleams Upon a vision’d Belmont, home of her Who loved as Shakespeare’s women do; and gleams Upon those walls wherein Othello’s spear Stabb’d clinging innocence; where that poor wife, The love-Cassandra Belvidera, gave Her soul in martyrdom to love and woe.

And shall I never that far town behold, Crested with sparkling columns, fiery towers, Praxitelean masonry?—behold VENICE, the mart of nations, ere I die? By Heaven! her common merchants princes were Unto the continents; her traffickers The honourable of the earth! She stood A crownèd city, and the fawning sea Licked her white feet; and the eternal sun Kissed with departing beam her brow of snow!

* * * * *

Woe to this Venice, with her crown of pride! The Lady of the kingdoms, the perfection Of beauty, and the joy of the whole earth! Through her pavilions shall the crannying winds Whistle, and all her borders in the sea Crumble their Parian wonder. Woe to her, Whose glorious beauty is a fading flower! Her sober-suited nightingales, with notes Of smooth liquidity and softened stops, Solace the brakes; and ’mid her ancient streets Tawny, the gleaming and harmonious sea Makes silvery melody of bygone days. O white Enchantment! Ocean-spouse of old! When thy high battlements and bulging domes, By sunset purpled, trembled in the wave! Now o’er thy towers the Lord hath spread his hand, And as a cottage shalt thou be removed; Like Nineveh, or cloudy Babylon!

The Anemone.

I have wandered far to-day, In a pleased unquiet way; Over hill and songful hollow, Vernal byeways, fresh and fair, Did I simple fancies follow; Till upon a hill-side bare, Suddenly I chanced to see A little white anemone.

Beneath a clump of furze it grew; And never mortal eye did view Its rathe and slender beauty, till I saw it in no mocking mood; For with its sweetness did it fill To me the ample solitude. A fond remembrance made me see Strange light in the anemone.

One April day when I was seven, Beneath the clear and deepening heaven, My father, God preserve him! went With me a Scottish mile and more; And in a playful merriment He deck’d my bonnet o’er and o’er— To fling a sunshine on his ease— With tenderest anemones.

Now, gentle reader, as I live, This snowy little bloom did give My being most endearing throes. I saw my father in his prime; But youth it comes, and youth it goes, And he has spent his blithest time: Yet dearer grown thro’ all to me, And dearer the anemone.

So with the spirit of a sage I pluck’d it from its hermitage, And placed it ’tween the sacred leaves Of _Agnes’ Eve_ at that rare part Where she her fragrant robe unweaves, And with a gently beating heart, In troubled bliss and balmy woe, Lies down to dream of Porphyro.

Let others sing of that and this, In war and science find their bliss; Vainly they seek and will not find The subtle lore that nature brings Unto the reverential mind, The pathos worn by common things, By every flower that lights the lea, And by the pale anemone.

The Yellowhammer.

In fairy glen of Woodilee, One sunny summer morning, I plucked a little birchen tree, The spongy moss adorning; And bearing it delighted home, I planted it in garden loam, Where, perfecting all duty, It flowered in tassel’d beauty.

When delicate April in each dell Was silently completing Her ministry in bud and bell, To grace the summer’s meeting; My birchen tree of glossy rind Determined not to be behind; So with a subtle power The buds began to flower.

And I could watch from out my house The twigs with leaflets thicken; From glossy rind to twining boughs The milky sap ’gan quicken. And when the fragrant form was green No fairer tree was to be seen, All Gartshore woods adorning, Where doves are always mourning.

But never dove with liquid wing, Or neck of changeful gleaming, Came near my garden tree to sing Or _croodle_ out its meaning. But this sweet day, an hour ago, A yellowhammer clear and low, In love and tender pity Thrilled out his dainty ditty.

And I was pleased, as you may think, And blessed the little singer: ‘O fly for your mate to Luggie brink, Dear little bird! and bring her; And build your nest among the boughs, A sweet and cosy little house Where ye may well content ye, Since true love is so plenty.

And when she sits upon her nest, Here are cool shades to shroud her.’ At this the singer sang his best, O louder yet, and louder; Until I shouted in my glee, His song had so enchanted me. No nightingale could pant on In joy so wise and wanton.

But at my careless noise he flew, And if he chance to bring her A happy bride the summer thro’ ’Mong birchen boughs to linger, I’ll sing to you in numbers high A summer song that shall not die, But keep in memory clearly The bird I love so dearly.

The Cuckoo.

Last night a vision was dispelled, Which I can never dream again; A wonder from the earth has gone, A passion from my brain. I saw upon a budding ash A cuckoo, and she blithely sung To all the valleys round about, While on a branch she swung. Cuckoo, cuckoo! I looked around, And like a dream fulfilled, A slender bird of modest brown, My sight with wonder thrilled. I looked again and yet again; My eyes, thought I, do sure deceive me, But when belief made doubting vain, Alas, the sight did grieve me. For twice to-day I heard the cry, The hollow cry of melting love; And twice a tear bedimmed my eye— I _saw_ the singer in the grove, I saw him pipe his eager tone, Like any other common bird, And, as I live, the sovereign cry Was not the one I always heard.

O why within that lusty wood Did I the fairy sight behold? O why within that solitude Was I thus blindly overbold? My heart, forgive me! for indeed I cannot speak my thrilling pain: The wonder vanished from the earth, The passion from my brain.

Fame.

_A Fragment._

O Glorious Fame! next grandest word to God, Father of all things beautiful and grand, Of all the thoughts ideal and sublime That grace the annals of our literature. Thou stirrer of the heart to noble deeds! Thou powerful antidote to cringing fear Of battle, rolling ’mid the billowy smoke That wreaths its curls blue over flood and field! In the cold, creaking garret, or beside The entrance to a theatre, or where Luxury pillows soft the somnolent head, Or where the dew-bent daisy droops to kiss The dark grey eggs of lark, companion sweet! There thou dost lift their souls above this world, And teachest them in language fair and wild, To ope their hearts in strains of poesy. Ah, noble Fame! how deeply I adore Thy altar, smelling sweet with fond applause! Sages may shun, philosophers may scorn; But, ah! to a young heart, how glorious The thought that he, by well-earned merit, shall Be spoken of, yea praised, ’neath the roof-tree Of peasant, or beneath the monarch’s dome! That learned men will wonder, and in joy Will lift their hands and shake astonished heads; That by the fireside, while the flick’ring lamp Doth send its shadow-forming light athwart. The genius young shall read, and read, and read Until the warning bell strike one short hour, Then fling it past, and, pillowed on his couch, Dream of the happy-gifted one that wrote it; That maidens, high in rank and fair in form, Shall speak to one another of that man Who, bathing in the pure Castalian fount, Arose, and from his form with pearlets clad Shook off the diamonds in bright profusion, That, while the clouds do tell their pattering beads, And through the forest roars the wailing wind Sporting with the brown leaves that wheel aloft, A joyous family, seated by a fire That roars in laughter at the storm without, Talked of the poet—

Honeysuckle.

Stop! taste the balmy essence of this flower, That fondly twines about the dark-green fir; The air is sweet, and, like a mild-eyed saint, It liveth doing good. The balmy gale Far wafts its odours to the lowly door Of yon small cot thatched with the dying heath, And the old dame doth bless the laden wind. I do not think that e’er a tender eye Looked on thee but with love,—that e’er a tongue Spoke of thee but with blessings and with praise. Thy lean red shanks cling round the dusty trunk, And send their white shoots through the brown rough bark, So true, so fond and frail-like that when one Looks on thee, his mind’s eye sees round God’s throne White spirits breathing hymns and fed with love. Ye sweet, sweet flowers! ye must have mutual love, For when one stalk, with its own beauty, droops, With oily leaves and breathing blossoms heavy, The others haste their sister to upraise, And, winding round it with affection’s grasp, Lift it from off the earth’s dark dreaded breast. How many nosegays have I often culled Of thee, fair guiltless thief, for even thy name Tells how thou _sucklest_ nature’s _honeyed_ sweets, And leav’st her less wherewith to bless the rest. Thou art not _very_ beauteous; many flowers, With high-fringed crests and gaudy-spotted leaves, Outstrip thy homely dress; but tell me one That blesseth ether with more fragrant smell? ’Tis ever thus. Furred robes and shining silks Oft hide a poppy’s smell—a dastard mind; And homely garments oft adorn a breast That heaves at pity’s tale and tale of wrong, And, known by none, yet is a friend to all.