10. The Garden of Eros



IT is full summer now, the heart of June,       
  Not yet the sun-burnt reapers are a-stir       
Upon the upland meadow where too soon       
  Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,       
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,            5   
And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.       
     
Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,       
  That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on       
To vex the rose with jealousy, and still       
  The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,     10   
And like a strayed and wandering reveller       
Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s messenger       
     
The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,       
  One pale narcissus loiters fearfully       
Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid     15   
  Of their own loveliness some violets lie       
That will not look the gold sun in the face       
For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks it is a place       
     
Which should be trodden by Persephone       
  When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!     20   
Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!       
  The hidden secret of eternal bliss       
Known to the Grecian here a man might find,       
Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.       
     
There are the flowers which mourning Herakles     25   
  Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,       
Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze       
  Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,       
That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,       
And lilac lady’s-smock,—but let them bloom alone, and leave     30   
     
Yon spired holly-hock red-crocketed       
  To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,       
Its little bellringer, go seek instead       
  Some other pleasaunce; the anemone       
That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl     35   
Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl       
     
Their painted wings beside it,—bid it pine       
  In pale virginity; the winter snow       
Will suit it better than those lips of thine       
  Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go     40   
And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,       
Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.       
     
The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus       
  So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet       
Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous     45   
  As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet       
Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar       
For any dappled fawn,—pluck these, and those fond flowers which are       
     
Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon       
  Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,     50   
That morning star which does not dread the sun,       
  And budding marjoram which but to kiss       
Would sweeten Cytheræa’s lips and make       
Adonis jealous,—these for thy head,—and for thy girdle take       
     
Yon curving spray of purple clematis     55   
  Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,       
And fox-gloves with their nodding chalices,       
  But that one narciss which the startled Spring       
Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard       
In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s bird,     60   
     
Ah! leave it for a subtle memory       
  Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,       
When April laughed between her tears to see       
  The early primrose with shy footsteps run       
From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,     65   
Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering gold.       
     
Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet       
  As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!       
And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet       
  Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,     70   
For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride       
And vail its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.       
     
And I will cut a reed by yonder spring       
  And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan       
Wonder what young intruder dares to sing     75   
  In these still haunts, where never foot of man       
Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy       
The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.       
     
And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears       
  Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,     80   
And why the hapless nightingale forbears       
  To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone       
When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,       
And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.       
     
And I will sing how sad Proserpina     85   
  Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,       
And lure the silver-breasted Helena       
  Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,       
So shalt thou see that awful loveliness       
For which two mighty Hosts met fearfuly in war’s abyss!     90   
     
And then I ’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale       
  How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,       
And hidden in a grey and misty veil       
  Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun       
Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase     95   
Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.       
     
And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,       
  We may behold Her face who long ago       
Dwelt among men by the Ægean sea,       
  And whose sad house with pillaged portico    100   
And friezeless wall and columns toppled down       
Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet-cinctured town.       
     
Spirit of Beauty! tarry still a-while,       
  They are not dead, thine ancient votaries,       
Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile    105   
  Is better than a thousand victories,       
Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo       
Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few.       
     
Who for thy sake would give their manlihood       
  And consecrate their being, I at least    110   
Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,       
  And in thy temples found a goodlier feast       
Than this starved age can give me, spite of all       
Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.       
     
Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,    115   
  The woods of white Colonos are not here,       
On our bleak hills the olive never blows,       
  No simple priest conducts his lowing steer       
Up the steep marble way, nor through the town       
Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.    120   
     
Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,       
  Whose very name should be a memory       
To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest       
  Beneath the Roman walls, and melody       
Still mourns her sweetest lyre, none can play    125   
The lute of Adonais, with his lips Song passed away.       
     
Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left       
  One silver voice to sing his threnody,       
But ah! too soon of it we were bereft       
  When on that riven night and stormy sea    130   
Panthea claimed her singer as her own,       
And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone,       
     
Save for that fiery heart, that morning star       
  Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye       
Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war    135   
  The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy       
Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring       
The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,       
     
And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,       
And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot    140   
In passionless and fierce virginity       
  Hunting the tuskéd boar, his honied lute       
Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,       
And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.       
     
And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,    145   
  And sung the Galilæan’s requiem,       
That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine       
  He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him       
Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,       
And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.    150   
     
Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,       
  It is not quenched the torch of poesy,       
The star that shook above the Eastern hill       
  Holds unassailed its argent armoury       
From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—    155   
O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,       
     
Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,       
  Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,       
With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled       
  The weary soul of man in troublous need,    160   
And from the far and flowerless fields of ice       
Has brought fair flowers meet to make an earthly paradise.       
     
We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride,       
  Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,       
How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,    165   
  And what enchantment held the king in thrall       
When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers       
That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,       
     
Long listless summer hours when the noon       
  Being enamoured of a damask rose    170   
Forgets to journey westward, till the moon       
  The pale usurper of its tribute grows       
From a thin sickle to a silver shield       
And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field       
     
Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,    175   
  At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come       
Almost before the blackbird finds a mate       
  And overstay the swallow, and the hum       
Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,       
Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,    180   
     
And through their unreal woes and mimic pain       
  Wept for myself, and so was purified,       
And in their simple mirth grew glad again;       
  For as I sailed upon that pictured tide       
The strength and splendour of the storm was mine    185   
Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine,       
     
The little laugh of water falling down       
  Is not so musical, the clammy gold       
Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town       
  Has less of sweetness in it, and the old    190   
Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady       
Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.       
     
Spirit of Beauty tarry yet a-while!       
  Although the cheating merchants of the mart       
With iron roads profane our lovely isle,    195   
  And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,       
Ay! though the crowded factories beget       
The blind-worm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!       
     
For One at least there is,—He bears his name       
  From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—    200   
Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame       
  To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,       
Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,       
And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,       
     
Loves thee so well, that all the World for him    205   
  A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,       
And Sorrow take a purple diadem,       
  Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair       
Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be       
Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery    210   
     
Which Painters hold, and such the heritage       
  This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,       
Being a better mirror of his age       
  In all his pity, love, and weariness,       
Than those who can but copy common things,    215   
And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.       
     
But they are few, and all romance has flown,       
  And men can prophesy about the sun,       
And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,       
  Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,    220   
How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,       
And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naïad shows her head.       
     
Methinks these new Actæons boast too soon       
  That they have spied on beauty; what if we       
Have analyzed the rainbow, robbed the moon    225   
  Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,       
Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope       
Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!       
     
What profit if this scientific age       
  Burst through our gates with all its retinue    230   
Of modern miracles! Can it assuage       
  One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do       
To make one life more beautiful, one day       
More god-like in its period? but now the Age of Clay       
     
Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth    235   
  Hath borne again a noisy progeny       
Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth       
  Hurls them against the august hierarchy       
Which sat upon Olympus, to the Dust       
They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must    240   
     
Repair for judgment, let them, if they can,       
  From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,       
Create the new Ideal rule for man!       
  Methinks that was not my inheritance;       
For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul    245   
Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.       
     
Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away       
  Her visage from the God, and Hecate’s boat       
Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day       
  Blew all its torches out: I did not note    250   
The waning hours, to young Endymions       
Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!—       
     
Mark how the yellow iris wearily       
  Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed       
By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,    255   
  Who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white wrist,       
Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,       
Which ’gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.       
     
Come let us go, against the pallid shield       
  Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,    260   
The corn-crake nested in the unmown field       
  Answers its mate, across the misty stream       
On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,       
And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,       
     
Scatters the pearléd dew from off the grass,    265   
  In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,       
Who soon in gilded panoply will pass       
  Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion       
Hung in the burning east, see, the red rim       
O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him    270   
     
Already the shrill lark is out of sight,       
  Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,—       
Ah! there is something more in that bird’s flight       
  Than could be tested in a crucible!—       
But the air freshens, let us go,—why soon    275   
The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!

11. Requiescat



TREAD lightly, she is near       
  Under the snow,       
Speak gently, she can hear       
  The daisies grow.       
     
All her bright golden hair            5   
  Tarnished with rust,       
She that was young and fair       
  Fallen to dust.       
     
Lily-like, white as snow,       
  She hardly knew     10   
She was a woman, so       
  Sweetly she grew.       
     
Coffin-board, heavy stone,       
  Lie on her breast,       
I vex my heart alone     15   
  She is at rest.       
     
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear       
  Lyre or sonnet,       
All my life’s buried here,       
  Heap earth upon it.


AVIGNON

12. Sonnet on approaching Italy



I REACHED the Alps: the soul within me burned       
  Italia, my Italia, at thy name:       
  And when from out the mountain’s heart I came       
And saw the land for which my life had yearned,       
I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:            5   
  And musing on the story of thy fame       
  I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame       
The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned,       
The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair,       
  And in the orchards every twining spray     10   
  Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:       
But when I knew that far away at Rome       
  In evil bonds a second Peter lay,       
  I wept to see the land so very fair.


TURIN

13. San Miniato



  SEE, I have climbed the mountain side       
  Up to this holy house of God,       
  Where once that Angel-Painter trod       
Who saw the heavens opened wide,       
     
  And throned upon the crescent moon            5   
  The Virginal white Queen of Grace,—       
  Mary! could I but see thy face       
Death could not come at all too soon.       
     
  O crowned by God with thorns and pain!       
  Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!     10   
  My heart is weary of this life       
And over-sad to sing again.       
     
  O crowned by God with love and flame!       
  O crowned by Christ the Holy One!       
  O listen ere the searching sun     15   
Show to the world my sin and shame.   

14. Ave Maria plena Gratia



WAS this His coming! I had hoped to see       
  A scene of wondrous glory, as was told       
  Of some great God who in a rain of gold       
Broke open bars and fell on Danae:       
Or a dread vision as when Semele            5   
  Sickening for love and unappeased desire       
  Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire       
Caught her white limbs and slew her utterly:       
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,       
  And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand     10   
  Before this supreme mystery of Love:       
A kneeling girl with passionless pale face,       
  An angel with a lily in his hand,       
  And over both with outstretched wings the Dove.


FLORENCE

15. Italia



ITALIA! thou art fallen, though with sheen       
  Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride       
  From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!       
Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen       
Because rich gold in every town is seen,            5   
  And on thy sapphire lake in tossing pride       
  Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride       
Beneath one flag of red and white and green.       
O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain!       
  Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town     10   
  Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!       
Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?       
  Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,       
  And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.


VENICE.

16. Sonnet written in Holy Week at Genoa



I WANDERED in Scoglietto’s green retreat,       
  The oranges on each o’erhanging spray       
  Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;       
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet       
Made snow of all the blossoms, at my feet            5   
  Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:       
  And the curved waves that streaked the sapphire bay       
Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.       
Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,       
  “Jesus the Son of Mary has been slain,     10   
  O come and fill his sepulchre with flowers.”       
Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours       
  Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,       
  The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers, and the Spear.   

17. Rome Unvisited



I.

THE corn has turned from grey to red,       
  Since first my spirit wandered forth       
  From the drear cities of the north,       
And to Italia’s mountains fled.       
     
And here I set my face towards home,            5   
  For all my pilgrimage is done,       
  Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun       
Marshals the way to Holy Rome.       
     
O Blessed Lady, who dost hold       
  Upon the seven hills thy reign!     10   
  O Mother without blot or stain,       
Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!       
     
O Roma, Roma, at thy feet       
  I lay this barren gift of song!       
  For, ah! the way is steep and long     15   
That leads unto thy sacred street.       
     
II.

And yet what joy it were for me       
  To turn my feet unto the south,       
  And journeying towards the Tiber mouth       
To kneel again at Fiesole!     20   
     
And wandering through the tangled pines       
  That break the gold of Arno’s stream,       
  To see the purple mist and gleam       
Of morning on the Apennines.       
     
By many a vineyard-hidden home,     25   
  Orchard, and olive-garden grey,       
  Till from the drear Campagna’s way       
The seven hills bear up the dome!       
     
III.

A pilgrim from the northern seas—       
  What joy for me to seek alone     30   
  The wondrous Temple, and the throne       
Of Him who holds the awful keys!       
     
When, bright with purple and with gold,       
  Come priest and holy Cardinal,       
  And borne above the heads of all     35   
The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.       
     
O joy to see before I die       
  The only God-anointed King,       
  And hear the silver trumpets ring       
A triumph as He passes by!     40   
     
Or at the altar of the shrine       
  Holds high the mystic sacrifice,       
  And shows a God to human eyes       
Beneath the veil of bread and wine.       
     
IV.

For lo, what changes time can bring!     45   
  The cycles of revolving years       
  May free my heart from all its fears,—       
And teach my lips a song to sing.       
     
Before yon field of trembling gold       
  Is garnered into dusty sheaves,     50   
  Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves       
Flutter as birds adown the wold,       
     
I may have run the glorious race,       
  And caught the torch while yet aflame,       
  And called upon the holy name     55   
Of Him who now doth hide His face.

18. Urbs Sacra Æterna



ROME! what a scroll of History thine has been       
  In the first days thy sword republican       
  Ruled the whole world for many an age’s span:       
Then of thy peoples thou wert crownèd Queen,       
Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen;            5   
  And now upon thy walls the breezes fan       
  (Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)       
The hated flag of red and white and green.       
When was thy glory! when in search for power       
  Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun,     10   
  And all the nations trembled at thy rod?       
Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour,       
  When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One,       
  The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God.

19. Sonnet on hearing the Dies Iræ sung in the Sistine Chapel



NAY, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,       
  Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,       
  Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love       
Than terrors of red flame and thundering.       
The empurpled vines dear memories of Thee bring:            5   
  A bird at evening flying to its nest,       
  Tells me of One who had no place of rest:       
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.       
Come rather on some autumn afternoon,       
  When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,     10   
  And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,       
Come when the splendid fulness of the moon       
  Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,       
  And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.