20. Easter Day



THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome:       
  The people knelt upon the ground with awe:       
  And borne upon the necks of men I saw,       
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.       
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,            5   
  And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,       
  Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:       
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.       
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years       
  To One who wandered by a lonely sea,     10   
  And sought in vain for any place of rest:       
“Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,       
  I, only I, must wander wearily,       
  And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.”   

21. E Tenebris



COME down, O Christ, and help me! reach thy hand,       
  For I am drowning in a stormier sea       
  Than Simon on thy lake of Galilee:       
The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,       
My heart is as some famine-murdered land,            5   
  Whence all good things have perished utterly,       
  And well I know my soul in Hell must lie       
If I this night before God’s throne should stand.       
“He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,       
  Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name     10   
  From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.”       
Nay, peace, I shall behold before the night,       
  The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,       
  The wounded hands, the weary human face.

22. Vita Nuova



I STOOD by the unvintageable sea       
  Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray,       
  The long red fires of the dying day       
Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;       
And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:            5   
  “Alas!” I cried, “my life is full of pain,       
  And who can garner fruit or golden grain,       
From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!”       
  My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw       
  Nathless I threw them as my final cast     10   
  Into the sea, and waited for the end.       
When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw       
  The argent splendour of white limbs ascend,       
  And in that joy forgot my tortured past.

23. Madonna Mia



A LILY-GIRL, not made for this world’s pain,       
  With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,       
  And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears       
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:       
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,            5   
  Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,       
  And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,       
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.       
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,       
  Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,     10   
  Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe.       
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice       
  Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw       
  The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.

24. The New Helen



WHERE hast thou been since round the walls of Troy       
  The sons of God fought in that great emprise?       
    Why dost thou walk our common earth again?       
Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,       
    His purple galley, and his Tyrian men,            5   
  And treacherous Aphrodite’s mocking eyes?       
For surely it was thou, who, like a star       
  Hung in the silver silence of the night,       
  Didst lure the Old World’s chivalry and might       
Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!     10   
     
Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?       
  In amorous Sidon was thy temple built       
    Over the light and laughter of the sea?       
  Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt,       
    Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry,     15   
All through the waste and wearied hours of noon;       
Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned,       
  And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss       
Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned       
  From Calpé and the cliffs of Herakles!     20   
     
No! thou art Helen, and none other one!       
  It was for thee that young Sarpedôn died,       
    And Memnôn’s manhood was untimely spent;       
  It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried       
With Thetis’ child that evil race to run,     25   
    In the last year of thy beleaguerment;       
Ay! even now the glory of thy fame       
  Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel,       
  Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well       
Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.     30   
     
Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land       
  Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew,       
    Where never mower rose to greet the day       
  But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew,       
And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand     35   
    Till summer’s red had changed to withered gray?       
Didst thou lie there by some Lethæan stream       
  Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,       
The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam       
  From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry.     40   
     
Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill       
  With one who is forgotten utterly,       
    That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine;       
  Hidden away that never mightst thou see       
    The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine     45   
To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel;       
  Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening,       
    But only Love’s intolerable pain,       
    Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,       
  Only the bitterness of child-bearing.     50   
     
The lotos-leaves which heal the wounds of Death       
  Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me,       
    While yet I know the summer of my days;       
For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath       
    To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise,     55   
  So bowed am I before thy mystery;       
So bowed and broken on Love’s terrible wheel,       
  That I have lost all hope and heart to sing,       
  Yet care I not what ruin time may bring       
If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.     60   
     
Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here,       
  But, like that bird, the servant of the sun,       
    Who flies before the northwind and the night,       
So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear,       
    Back to the tower of thine old delight,     65   
  And the red lips of young Euphorion;       
Nor shall I ever see thy face again,       
  But in this poisonous garden must I stay,       
Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain,       
  Till all my loveless life shall pass away.     70   
     
O Helen! Helen! Helen! yet awhile,       
  Yet for a little while, O, tarry here,       
    Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee!       
For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile       
  Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear,     75   
    Seeing I know no other god but thee:       
No other god save him, before whose feet       
  In nets of gold the tired planets move,       
  The incarnate spirit of spiritual love       
Who in thy body holds his joyous seat.     80   
     
Thou wert not born as common women are!       
  But, girt with silver splendour of the foam,       
    Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise!       
And at thy coming some immortal star,       
    Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies,     85   
  And waked the shepherds on thine island-home.       
Thou shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep       
  Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air;       
  No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair,       
Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.     90   
     
Lily of love, pure and inviolate!       
  Tower of ivory! red rose of fire!       
    Thou hast come down our darkness to illume:       
For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate,       
  Wearied with waiting for the World’s Desire,     95   
    Aimlessly wandered in the house of gloom,       
Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne       
  For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness,       
Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine,       
  And the white glory of thy loveliness.    100

25. The Burden of Itys



THIS English Thames is holier far than Rome,       
  Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea       
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam       
  Of meadow-sweet and white anemone       
To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there,            5   
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!       
     
Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take       
  Yon creamy lily for their pavilion       
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake       
  A lazy pike lies basking in the sun     10   
His eyes half-shut,—He is some mitred old       
Bishop in partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.       
     
The wind the restless prisoner of the trees       
  Does well for Palæstrina, one would say       
The mighty master’s hands were on the keys     15   
  Of the Maria organ, which they play       
When early on some sapphire Easter morn       
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne       
     
From his dark House out to the Balcony       
  Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,     20   
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy       
  To toss their silver lances in the air,       
And stretching out weak hands to East and West       
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.       
     
Is not yon lingering orange afterglow     25   
  That stays to vex the moon more fair than all       
Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago       
  I knelt before some crimson Cardinal       
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,       
And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.     30   
     
The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous       
  With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring       
Through this cool evening than the odorous       
  Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,       
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,     35   
And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine.       
     
Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass       
  Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird       
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass       
  I see that throbbing throat which once I heard     40   
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,       
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.       
     
Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves       
  At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,       
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves     45   
  Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe       
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait       
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.       
     
And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,       
  And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,     50   
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees       
  That round and round the linden blossoms play;       
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,       
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall.       
     
And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring     55   
  While the last violet loiters by the well,       
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing       
  The song of Linus through a sunny dell       
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold       
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.     60   
     
And sweet with young Lycoris to recline       
  In some Illyrian valley far away,       
Where canopied on herbs amaracine       
  We too might waste the summer-trancèd day       
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,     65   
While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.       
     
But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot       
  Of some long-hidden God should ever tread       
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute       
  Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head     70   
By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed       
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.       
     
Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,       
  Though what thou sing’st be thine own requiem!       
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler     75   
  Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn       
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,       
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield,       
     
Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose,       
  Which all day long in vales Æolian     80   
A lad might seek in vain for, overgrows       
  Our hedges like a wanton courtezan       
Unthrifty of her beauty, lilies too       
Ilissus never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue       
     
Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs     85   
  For swallows going south, would never spread       
Their azure tents between the Attic vines;       
  Even that little weed of ragged red,       
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady       
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy     90   
     
Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames       
  Which to awake were sweeter ravishment       
Than ever Syrinx wept for, diadems       
  Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant       
For Cytheræa’s brows are hidden here     95   
Unknown to Cytheræa, and by yonder pasturing steer       
     
There is a tiny yellow daffodil,       
  The butterfly can see it from afar,       
Although one summer evening’s dew could fill       
  Its little cup twice over ere the star    100   
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold       
And be no prodigal, each leaf is flecked with spotted gold       
     
As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danaé       
  Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss       
The trembling petals, or young Mercury    105   
  Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis       
Had with one feather of his pinions       
Just brushed them!—the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns       
     
Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,       
  Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry,—    110   
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre       
  Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me       
It seems to bring diviner memories       
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,       
     
Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where    115   
  On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,       
The tangle of the forest in his hair,       
  The silence of the woodland in his eyes,       
Wooing that drifting imagery which is       
No sooner kissed than broken, memories of Salmacis    120   
     
Who is not boy or girl and yet is both,       
  Fed by two fires and unsatisfied       
Through their excess, each passion being loth       
  For love’s own sake to leave the other’s side       
Yet killing love by staying, memories    125   
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moon-lit trees,       
     
Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf       
  At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew       
Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf       
  And called false Theseus back again nor knew    130   
That Dionysos on an amber pard       
Was close behind her, memories of what Maeonia’s bard       
     
With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,       
  Queen Helen lying in the carven room,       
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy    135   
  Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s plume,       
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,       
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;       
     
Of wingèd Perseus with his flawless sword       
  Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,    140   
And all those tales imperishably stored       
  In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich       
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain       
Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,       
     
For well I know they are not dead at all,    145   
  The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy,       
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call       
  Will wake and think ’t is very Thessaly,       
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade       
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.    150   
     
If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird       
  Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne       
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard       
  The horn of Atalanta faintly blown       
Across the Cumner hills, and wandering    155   
Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring,—       
     
Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate       
  That pleadest for the moon against the day!       
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate       
  On that sweet questing, when Proserpina    160   
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant       
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment,—       
     
Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!       
  If ever thou didst soothe with melody       
One of that little clan, that brotherhood    165   
  Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany       
More than the perfect sun of Raphael       
And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well,       
     
Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,       
  Let elemental things take form again,    170   
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among       
  The simple garths and open crofts, as when       
The son of Leto bare the willow rod,       
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.       
     
Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here    175   
  Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,       
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear       
  With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,       
While at his side the wanton Bassarid       
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!    180   
     
Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,       
  And steal the moonéd wings of Ashtaroth,       
Upon whose icy chariot we could win       
  Cithæron in an hour e’er the froth       
Has overbrimmed the wine-vat or the Faun    185   
Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn       
     
Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,       
  And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,       
Some Mænad girl with vine-leaves on her breast       
  Will filch their beechnuts from the sleeping Pans    190   
So softly that the little nested thrush       
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush       
     
Down the green valley where the fallen dew       
   Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,       
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew    195   
   Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,       
And where their hornèd master sits in state       
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!       
     
Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face       
   Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come,    200   
The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase       
   Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,       
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,       
After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride.       
     
Sing on! and I the dying boy will see    205   
   Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell       
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me       
   The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,       
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,       
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!    210   
     
Cry out aloud on Itys! memory       
  That foster-brother of remorse and pain       
Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,       
  To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again       
Into the white-plumed battle of the waves    215   
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!       
     
O for Medea with her poppied spell!       
  O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!       
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel       
  Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,    220   
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she       
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,       
     
Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased       
  From lily to lily on the level mead,       
Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste    225   
  The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,       
Ere the black steeds had harried her away       
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.       
     
O for one midnight and as paramour       
  The Venus of the little Melian farm!    230   
O that some antique statue for one hour       
  Might wake to passion, and that I could charm       
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair       
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair!       
     
Sing on! sing on! I would be drunk with life,    235   
  Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,       
I would forget the wearying wasted strife,       
  The riven vale, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,       
The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,       
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!    240   
     
Sing on! sing on! O feathered Niobe,       
  Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal       
From joy its sweetest music, not as we       
  Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal       
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep    245   
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep.       
     
Sing louder yet, why must I still behold       
  The wan white face of that deserted Christ,       
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,       
  Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,    250   
And now in mute and marble misery       
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me.       
     
O memory cast down thy wreathèd shell!       
  Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!       
O sorrow sorrow keep thy cloistered cell    255   
  Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!       
Cease, cease, sad bird, thou dost the forest wrong       
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!       
     
Cease, cease, or if ’tis anguish to be dumb       
  Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,    260   
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become       
  This English woodland than thy keen despair,       
Ah! cease and let the northwind bear thy lay       
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.       
     
A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,    265   
  Endymion would have passed across the mead       
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard       
  Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed       
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid       
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.    270   
     
A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,       
  The silver daughter of the silver sea       
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed       
  Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope       
Had thrust aside the branches of her oak    275   
To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.       
     
A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss       
  Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon       
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis       
  Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,    280   
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile       
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile       
     
Down leaning from his black and clustering hair       
  To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned bliss,       
Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare    285   
  High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis       
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer       
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.       
     
Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!       
  O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!    290   
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill       
  Come not with such desponded answering!       
No more thou wingèd Marsyas complain,       
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!       
     
It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,    295   
  No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,       
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,       
  And from the copse left desolate and bare       
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,       
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody    300   
     
So sad, that one might think a human heart       
  Brake in each separate note, a quality       
Which music sometimes has, being the Art       
  Which is most nigh to tears and memory,       
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?    305   
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,       
     
Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,       
  No woven web of bloody heraldries,       
But mossy dells for roving comrades made,       
  Warm valleys where the tired student lies    310   
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk       
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.       
     
The harmless rabbit gambols with its young       
  Across the trampled towing-path, where late       
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng    315   
  Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;       
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,       
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds       
     
Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out       
  Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock    320   
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout       
  Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,       
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,       
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.       
     
The heron passes homeward to the mere,    325   
  The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,       
Gold world by world the silent stars appear,       
  And like a blossom blown before the breeze,       
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,       
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.    330   
     
She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,       
  She knows Endymion is not far away,       
’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed       
  Which has no message of its own to play,       
So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,    335   
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.       
     
Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill       
  About the sombre woodland seems to cling,       
Dying in music, else the air is still,       
  So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing    340   
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell       
Each tiny dewdrop dripping from the blue-bell’s brimming cell.       
     
And far away across the lengthening wold,       
  Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,       
Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold    345   
  Marks the long High Street of the little town,       
And warns me to return; I must not wait,       
Hark! ’tis the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.   

26. Impression du Matin



THE Thames nocturne of blue and gold       
  Changed to a Harmony in grey:       
  A barge with ochre-coloured hay       
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold       
     
The yellow fog came creeping down            5   
  The bridges, till the houses’ walls       
  Seemed changed to shadows, and S. Paul’s       
Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.       
     
Then suddenly arose the clang       
  Of waking life; the streets were stirred     10   
  With country waggons: and a bird       
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.       
     
But one pale woman all alone,       
  The daylight kissing her wan hair,       
  Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,     15   
With lips of flame and heart of stone.

27. Magdalen Walks



THE little white clouds are racing over the sky,       
  And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,       
  The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch       
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.       
     
A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,            5   
  The odour of leaves, and of grass, and of newly up-turned earth,       
  The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,       
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.       
     
And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,       
  And the rosebud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,     10   
  And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire       
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.       
     
And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love       
  Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,       
  And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen     15   
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.       
     
See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,       
  Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,       
  And flashing a-down the river, a flame of blue!       
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.     20

28. Athanasia



TO that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught       
  Of all the great things men have saved from Time,       
The withered body of a girl was brought       
  Dead ere the world’s glad youth had touched its prime,       
And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid            5   
In the dim womb of some black pyramid.       
     
But when they had unloosed the linen band       
  Which swathed the Egyptian’s body,—lo! was found       
Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand       
  A little seed, which sown in English ground     10   
Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear,       
And spread rich odours through our springtide air.       
     
With such strange arts this flower did allure       
  That all forgotten was the asphodel,       
And the brown bee, the lily’s paramour,     15   
  Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,       
For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,       
But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.       
     
In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white       
  At its own beauty, hung across the stream,     20   
The purple dragon-fly had no delight       
  With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam,       
Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss,       
Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.       
     
For love of it the passionate nightingale     25   
  Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king,       
And the pale dove no longer cared to sail       
  Through the wet woods at time of blossoming,       
But round this flower of Egypt sought to float,       
With silvered wing and amethystine throat.     30   
     
While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue       
  A cooling wind crept from the land of snows,       
And the warm south with tender tears of dew       
  Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos uprose       
Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky     35   
On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie.       
     
But when o’er wastes of lily-haunted field       
  The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune,       
And broad and glittering like an argent shield       
  High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon,     40   
Did no strange dream or evil memory make       
Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake?       
     
Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years       
  Seemed but the lingering of a summer’s day,       
It never knew the tide of cankering fears     45   
  Which turn a boy’s gold hair to withered grey,       
The dread desire of death it never knew,       
Or how all folk that they were born must rue.       
     
For we to death with pipe and dancing go,       
  Nor would we pass the ivory gate again,     50   
As some sad river wearied of its flow       
  Through the dull plains, the haunts of common men,       
Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea!       
And counts it gain to die so gloriously.       
     
We mar our lordly strength in barren strife     55   
  With the world’s legions led by clamorous care,       
It never feels decay but gathers life       
  From the pure sunlight and the supreme air,       
We live beneath Time’s wasting sovereignty,       
It is the child of all eternity.     60

29. Serenade

(FOR MUSIC.)



THE western wind is blowing fair       
  Across the dark Ægean sea,       
And at the secret marble stair       
  My Tyrian galley waits for thee.       
Come down! the purple sail is spread,            5   
  The watchman sleeps within the town,       
O leave thy lily-flowered bed,       
  O Lady mine come down, come down!       
     
She will not come, I know her well,       
  Of lover’s vows she hath no care,     10   
And little good a man can tell       
  Of one so cruel and so fair.       
True love is but a woman’s toy,       
  They never know the lover’s pain,       
And I who loved as loves a boy     15   
  Must love in vain, must love in vain.       
     
O noble pilot tell me true       
  Is that the sheen of golden hair?       
Or is it but the tangled dew       
  That binds the passion-flowers there?     20   
Good sailor come and tell me now       
  Is that my Lady’s lily hand?       
Or is it but the gleaming prow,       
  Or is it but the silver sand?       
     
No! no! ’tis not the tangled dew,     25   
  ’Tis not the silver-fretted sand,       
It is my own dear Lady true       
  With golden hair and lily hand!       
O noble pilot steer for Troy,       
  Good sailor ply the labouring oar,     30   
This is the Queen of life and joy       
  Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!       
     
The waning sky grows faint and blue,       
  It wants an hour still of day,       
Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,     35   
  O Lady mine away! away!       
O noble pilot steer for Troy,       
  Good sailor ply the labouring oar,       
O loved as only loves a boy!       
  O loved for ever evermore!     40