40. The Dole of the King’s Daughter

(BRETON.)



SEVEN stars in the still water,       
  And seven in the sky;       
Seven sins on the King’s daughter,       
  Deep in her soul to lie.       
     
Red roses are at her feet,            5   
  (Roses are red in her red-gold hair)       
And O where her bosom and girdle meet       
  Red roses are hidden there.       
     
Fair is the knight who lieth slain       
  Amid the rush and reed,     10   
See the lean fishes that are fain       
  Upon dead men to feed.       
     
Sweet is the page that lieth there,       
  (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)       
See the black ravens in the air,     15   
  Black, O black as the night are they.       
     
What do they there so stark and dead?       
  (There is blood upon her hand)       
Why are the lilies flecked with red?       
  (There is blood on the river sand.)     20   
     
There are two that ride from the south and east,       
  And two from the north and west,       
For the black raven a goodly feast,       
  For the King’s daughter rest.       
     
There is one man who loves her true,     25   
  (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)       
He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,       
  (One grave will do for four.)       
     
No moon in the still heaven,       
  In the black water none,     30   
The sins on her soul are seven,       
  The sin upon his is one.

41. Amor Intellectualis



OFT have we trod the vales of Castaly       
  And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown       
  From antique reeds to common folk unknown:       
And often launched our bark upon that sea       
Which the nine Muses hold in empery,            5   
  And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,       
  Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home       
Till we had freighted well our argosy.       
Of which despoilèd treasures these remain,       
  Sordello’s passion, and the honied line     10   
Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine       
  Driving his pampered jades, and more than these,       
The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,       
  And grave-browed Milton’s solemn harmonies.

42. Santa Decca



THE Gods are dead: no longer do we bring       
  To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!       
  Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves,       
And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,       
For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning            5   
  By secret glade and devious haunt is o’er:       
  Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;       
Great Pan is dead, and Mary’s Son is King.       
     
And yet—perchance in this sea-trancèd isle,       
  Chewing the bitter fruit of memory,     10   
  Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.       
Ah Love! if such there be then it were well       
  For us to fly his anger: nay, but see       
  The leaves are stirring: let us watch a-while.

43. A Vision



TWO crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone       
  With no green weight of laurels round his head,       
  But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,       
And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan       
For sins no bleating victim can atone,            5   
  And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.       
  Girt was he in a garment black and red,       
And at his feet I marked a broken stone       
  Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.       
  Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame     10   
I cried to Beatricé, “Who are these?”       
And she made answer, knowing well each name,       
  “Æschylos first, the second Sophokles,       
  And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.”   

44. Impression du Voyage



THE sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky       
  Burned like a heated opal through the air,       
  We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair       
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.       
From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye            5   
  Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,       
  Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,       
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.       
The flapping of the sail against the mast,       
  The ripple of the water on the side,     10   
  The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern,       
The only sounds:—when ’gan the West to burn,       
  And a red sun upon the seas to ride,       
  I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

45. The Grave of Shelley



LIKE burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed       
  Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;       
  Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,       
And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.       
And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,            5   
  In the still chamber of yon pyramid       
  Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,       
Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.       
     
Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb       
  Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,     10   
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb       
  In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,       
Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom       
  Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.


ROME.

46. By the Arno



  THE oleander on the wall       
  Grows crimson in the dawning light,       
  Though the grey shadows of the night       
Lie yet on Florence like a pall.       
     
  The dew is bright upon the hill,            5   
  And bright the blossoms overhead,       
  But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,       
The little Attic song is still.       
     
  Only the leaves are gently stirred       
  By the soft breathing of the gale,     10   
  And in the almond-scented vale       
The lonely nightingale is heard.       
     
  The day will make thee silent soon,       
  O nightingale sing on for love!       
  While yet upon the shadowy grove     15   
Splinter the arrows of the moon.       
     
  Before across the silent lawn       
  In sea-green mist the morning steals,       
  And to love’s frightened eyes reveals       
The long white fingers of the dawn     20   
     
  Fast climbing up the eastern sky       
  To grasp and slay the shuddering night,       
  All careless of my heart’s delight,       
Or if the nightingale should die.

47. Fabien dei Franchi



THE silent room, the heavy creeping shade,       
  The dead that travel fast, the opening door,       
  The murdered brother rising through the floor,       
The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,       
And then the lonely duel in the glade,            5   
  The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,       
  Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o’er,—       
These things are well enough,—but thou wert made       
  For more august creation! frenzied Lear       
  Should at thy bidding wander on the heath     10   
  With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo       
For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear       
Pluck Richard’s recreant dagger from its sheath—       
  Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to blow!   

48. Phêdre



HOW vain and dull this common world must seem       
  To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked       
  At Florence with Mirandola, or walked       
Through the cool olives of the Academe:       
Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream            5   
  For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played       
  With the white girls in that Phæacian glade       
Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.       
     
Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay       
  Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again     10   
  Back to this common world so dull and vain,       
For thou wert weary of the sunless day,       
  The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,       
  The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.

49. Portia



I MARVEL not Bassanio was so bold       
  To peril all he had upon the lead,       
  Or that proud Aragon bent low his head,       
Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold:       
For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold            5   
  Which is more golden than the golden sun,       
  No woman Veronesé looked upon       
Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.       
Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield       
  The sober-suited lawyer’s gown you donned     10   
And would not let the laws of Venice yield       
  Antonio’s heart to that accursèd Jew—       
  O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:       
I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.