The Triumph of Music, and Other Lyrics

Cawein Madison Julius

The Triumph of Music, and Other Lyrics

THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC

IThere lay in a vale 'twixt lone mountainsA garden entangled with flowers,Where the whisper of echoing fountainsStirred softly the musk-breathing bowers.Where torrents cast down from rock-masses,From caverns of red-granite steeps,With thunders sonorous clove passesAnd maddened dark gulfs with rash leaps,With the dolorous foam of their leaps.IIAnd, oh, when the sunrays came heapingThe foam of those musical chasms,With a scintillant dust as of diamonds,It seemed that white spirits were sweepingDown, down thro' those voluble chasms,Wild weeping in resonant spasms.And the wave from the red-hearted graniteIn veins rolled tumbling around;Meandered thro' shade-haunted forestsWhere many rock barriers did span itTo dash it in froth and in sound:Where the nights with their great moons could wan it,Or star its dusk stillness profound.IIIAnd here in the night would I wanderOn woodways where fragrances kissed,By shadows where murmurings kissed;And here would I tarry to ponderWhen the moon in blue vales made a mist;Dim in forests of rank, rocking cedars,Whose wildness made glad with their scent,Whose boughs in the tempests were bentLike the pennons and plumes of fierce leaders,In the battle all ragged and rent.IVAnd so when the moonshine was floatingFar up on the mountain's bleak head,On the uttermost foam of the torrent,Would I string a wild harp while was gloatingThe moon on my blossomy bed.Or I lay where a fountain of blossomsRained rustling from arches aloft,From the thick-scented arbors aloft,And I sang as the blossoms' white bosomsPressed silk-smooth to mine and lay soft:I sang as their redolence stung me,And laughed on my blossomy couch,Till the fragrance and music had flung meInto shadows of sleep with their touch,The magic of exquisite touch…VOne night as I wondered and wanderedIn this my rare Aidenn of flowers,I saw where I lingered and ponderedA youth cast asleep mid the bowers:A youth on a mantle of satin,A poppy-red robe in the flowers.VISo I kissed his thin eyelids full tender,I kissed his high forehead and pale,I sighed as I kissed his black splendorOf curls that were kissed of the gale,That were moved of the balm-breathing gale.And he woke and cried out as if haunted: —"Oh God! for one note of that song!For a sob of that languishing song!Whose tumult of sorrow enchanted,And swept my weak spirit along!"VIIThan I sate me upon the red satinAnd plunged a long look in his eyes;I bowed on the weft of red satinAnd kindled his love with my sighs.With fingers of lightness set sobbingThe chords of my harp in a song,Till I found that my heart was a-throbbingAnd sobbing to sing like a tongue,Was sobbing to mix with the song.VIIIThen he cried, and his dark eyes keen glistened,"Lost! lost! for that perilous music!Oh God! for that tyrannous strain!To which in my dreams I have listened,Ah, wretch! I have listened with pain!"And he tost on the garment of satinHis deep raven darkness of hair,And the song at my lips was ungathered,And I sate there to marvel and stare.IXThen I wrenched from my soul a wild gloryOf music delirious with words,Of music that wailed a soul's story,And trembled with god-uttered words,Or fell like the battling of swords.And in with it mixed all the beautyOf farewells and ravenous sighs,The heart that was broken for booty,Tears, rapture to know that one dies,Hell, heaven and laughter and cries.XIn music the heart-ache of passion,The terror of souls that are lost,Cold, dizzying anguish of dying,All torments that beauty could fashion,Hot manacles of love and their cost.The bliss and the fury of dashingA soul into riotous love,While the smiting of harp-chords and crashingOf song like the winds were enwoveWith the stars that fall sounding above.XIAh! why did the poppy-crowned slumberSeal up the rare light of his eyesWith its silver of vapory pinions,The creature that sung in each number,To nest in his tired-out eyes,Like a bird that is sick of the skies.Yet he murmured so sad and so thrilling,"Oh God! for a lifetime of song!Oh life! for a world of such song!For a heaven or hell and the killing,Mad angel or devil of song!Oh, the rapture engendered in throwingOn bubbles of music and songA soul to the anguish of loving,Until like a flower, full blowing,It is lost in a whirlwind most strong,It dies in a thunder of song!"XIII had flung in my song the emotionTriumphant of heart and of soul,And I recked not the passionate oceanThat rolled to abysses of dole,To infinite torture and dole.XIIISo I sang and I harped till all wearyI sunk on the red of that robe,Crouched down at his feet on the satin,While he slumbered with eyelashes tearyFringed dark o'er each eye-ball's dark globe.Then I wondered and said, "It is drearyTo see him so still on this robe."And I sobbed and I sobbed, "Is he living,Or have I but slain with my song!"And it seemed that a demon was strivingTo strangle my heart with a thong,With terror and sorrow of wrong.XIVAnd I rent the wild harp in my madness,From his ashen brows furrowed the hair;Soft wafted dark curls from pale temples —They rustled with death – and the sadnessOf his face so hopelessly fair!How I wailed to the stars of the heavenHow they scoffed at and answered my griefIn letters of flame, "Unforgiven!Thou deathless, whose voice is a thief,Forever and ever grief!"XVSo I wept on the instrument broken,The instrument sweet of his death,The dagger that stabbed not to kill him,The dagger of song which had spoken,And ravished away his life's breath.So I wept, and my curls thick and goldenStormed entangled and showered 'mid his;My arms around him were enfolden,My lips clave to his with a kiss,With the life and the love of a kiss.

WHAT YOU WILL

IWhen the season was dry and the sun was hotAnd the hornet sucked gaunt on the apricot,And the ripe peach dropped to its seed a-rot,With a lean red wasp that stung and clung;When the hollyhocks, ranked in the garden-plot,More seed-pods had than blossoms, I wot,A weariness weighed on the tongue,That the drought of the season begot.IIWhen the black grape bulged with the juice that burstThrough its thick blue skin that was cracked with thirst,And the round gold pippins, the summer had nursed,In the yellowing leaves o' the orchards hung;When the reapers, their lips with whistling pursed,To their sun-tanned brows in the corn were immersed,A lightness came over the tongue,And one sung as much as one durst.IIIWhen the skies of December gray dripped and dripped,And icicles eaves of the big barn tipped,And loud hens flew over the snow or slipped,And the north wind hooted and bit and stung,And the ears of the milkmaid, Miriam, nipped,And the chappy cheeks of the farm boy whipped,A goddess unloosened the tongue,And one's mouth with wild honey was lipped.

IN THE SOUTH

[Serenade.]The dim verbena drugs the duskWith heavy lemon odors rare;Wan heliotropes Arabian muskExhale into the dreamy air;A sad wind with long wooing huskSwoons in the roses there.The jasmine at thy casement flingsStar-censers oozing rich perfumes;The clematis, long petaled, swingsDeep clusters of dark purple blooms;With flowers like moons or sylphide wingsMagnolias light the glooms.Awake, awake from sleep!Thy balmy hair,Unbounden deep on deep,Than blossoms fair,Who sweetest fragrance weep,Will fill the night with prayer.Awake, awake from sleep!And dreaming here it seems to meSome dryad's bosoms grow confessedNude in the dark magnolia tree,That rustles with the murmurous West, —Or is it but a dream of theeThat thy white beauty guessed?In southern heavens above are rolledA million feverish gems, which burstFrom night's deep ebon caskets old,With inner fires that seem to thirst;Tall oleanders to their goldDrift buds where dews are nursed.Unseal, unseal thine eyes,Where long her rodQueen Mab sways o'er their skiesIn realms of Nod!Confessed, such majestiesWill fill the night with God.Unseal, unseal thine eyes!

PAN

1Haunter of green intricacies,Where the sunlight's amber lacesDeeps of darkest violet;Where the ugly Satyr chasesShining Dryads, fair as Graces,Whose lithe limbs with dew are wet;Piper in hid mountain places,Where the blue-eyed Oread bracesWinds which in her sweet cheeks setOf Aurora rosy traces,Whiles the Faun from myrtle mazesWatcheth with an eye of jet:What art thou and these dim races,Thou, O Pan! of many faces,Who art ruler yet?2Tell me, piper, have I everHeard thy hollow syrinx quiverTrickling music in the trees?Where dark hazel copses shiver,Have I heard its dronings severThe warm silence, or the bees?Ripple murmurings, that neverCould be born of fall or river,Whisperings and subtleties,Melodies so very clever,None can doubt that thou, the giver,Master Nature's keys.3What glad awes of storm are givenThy mad power, which has striven, —Where the craggy forests glare, —In wild mockery, when HeavenSplits with thunder wedges drivenRed through night and rainy air!What art thou, whose presence, evenWhile its fear the heart hath riven,Heals it with a prayer?

PAX VOBISCUM

1Her violets in thine eyesThe Springtide stained I know,Two bits of mystic skiesOn which the green turf lies,Whereon the violets blow.2I know the Summer wroughtFrom thy sweet heart that rose,With that faint fragrance fraught,Its sad poetic thoughtOf peace and deep repose.3That Autumn, like some god,From thy delicious hair —Lost sunlight 'neath the sodShot up this golden-rodTo toss it everywhere.4That Winter from thy breastThe snowdrop's whiteness stole —Much kinder than the rest —Thy innocence confessed,The pureness of thy soul.

MIRABILE DICTU

There lives a goddess in the West,An island in death-lonesome seas;No towered towns are hers confessed,No castled forts and palaces.Hers, simple worshipers at best,The buds, the birds, the bees.And she hath wonder-worlds of songSo heavenly beautiful, and shedSo sweetly from her honeyed tongue,The savage creatures, it is said,Hark marble-still their wilds among,And nightingales fall dead.I know her not, nor have I known;I only feel that she is there;For when my heart is most aloneThere broods communion on the air,Concedes an influence not its own,Miraculously fair.Then fain is it to sing and sing,And then again to fly and flyBeyond the flight of cloud or wing,Far under azure arcs of sky.Its love at her chaste feet to fling,Behold her face and die.

QUESTIONINGS

Now when wan winter sunsets beCanary-colored down the sky;When nights are starless utterly,And sleeted winds cut moaning by,One's memory keeps one company,And conscience puts his "when" and "why."Such inquisition, when alone,Wakes superstition in the head,A Gorgon face of hueless stoneWith staring eyes to terror wed,Stamped on her brow God's words, "Unknown!Behind the dead, behind the dead."And, oh! that weariness of soulThat leans upon our dead, the clodAnd air have taken as a wholeThrough some mysterious period: —Life! with thy questions of control:Death! with thy unguessed laws of God.

WAITING

Were we in May now, whileOur souls are yearning,Sad hearts would bound and smileWith red blood burning;Around the tedious dialNo slow hands turning.Were we in May now, say,What joy to knowHer heart's streams pulse awayIn winds that blow,See graceful limbs of MayRevealed to glow.Were we in May now, thinkWhat wealth she has;The dog-tooth violets pink,Wind-flowers like glass,About the wood brook's brinkDark sassafras.Nights, which the large stars strewHeav'n on heav'n rolled,Nights, whose feet flash with dew,Whose long locks holdAromas cool and new,A moon's curved gold.This makes me sad in March;I long and longTo see the red-bud's torchFlame far and strong,Hear on my vine-climbed porchThe blue-bird's song.What else then but to sleepAnd cease from such;Dream of her and to leapAt her white touch?Ah me! then wake and weep,Weep overmuch.This is why day by dayTime lamely crawls,Feet clogged with winter clayThat never falls,While the dim month of MayMe far off calls.

IN LATE FALL

Such days as break the wild bird's heart;Such days as kill it and its songs;A death which knows a sweeter partOf days to which such death belongs.And now old eyes are filled with tears,As with the rain the frozen flowers;Time moves so slowly one but fearsThe burthen on his wasted powers.And so he stopped; – and thou art dead!And that is found which once was feared: —A farewell to thy gray, gray head,A goodnight to thy goodly beard!

MIDWINTER

The dew-drop from the rose that slipsHath not the sparkle of her lips,My lady's lips.Than her long braids of yellow holdThe dandelion hath not more gold,Her braids like gold.The blue-bell hints not more of skiesThan do the flowers in her eyes,My lady's eyes.The sweet-pea blossom doth not wearMore dainty pinkness than her ear,My lady's ear.So, heigho! then, tho' skies be gray,My heart's a garden that is gayThis sorry day.

LONGING

When rathe wind-flowers many peerAll rain filled at blue April skies,As on one smiles one's lady dearWith the big tear-drops in her eyes;When budded May-apples, I wis,Be hidden by lone greenwood creeks,Be bashful as her cheeks we kiss,Be waxen as her dimpled cheeks;Then do I pine for happier skies,Shy wild-flowers fair by hill and burn;As one for one's sweet lady's eyes,And her white cheeks might pine and yearn.

IN MIDDLE SPRING

When the fields are rolled into naked gold,And a ripple of fire and pearl is blentWith the emerald surges of wood and woldLike a flower-foam bursting violent;When the dingles and deeps of the woodlands oldAre glad with a sibilant life new sent,Too rare to be told are the manifoldSweet fancies that quicken redolentIn the heart that no longer is cold.How it knows of the wings of the hawk that swingsFrom the drippled dew scintillant seen;Why the red-bird hides where it sings and singsIn melodious quiverings of green;How the wind to the red-bud and dogwood bringsBig pearls of worth and corals of sheen,Whiles he lisps to the strings of a lute that ringsOf love in the South who is queen,Where the fountain of poesy springs.Go seek in the ray for a sworded fayThe chestnut's buds into blooms that rips;And look in the brook that runs laughing gayFor the nymph with the laughing lips;In the brake for the dryad whose eyes are gray,From whose bosom the perfume drips;The faun hid away where the grasses swayThick ivy low down on his hips,Pursed lips on a syrinx at play.So ho, for the rose, the Romeo rose,And the lyric he hides in his heart;And ho, for the epic the oak tree knows,Sonorous and mighty in art.The lily with woes that her white face showsHath a satire she yearns to impart,But none of those, her hates and her foes,For a heart that sings but for sport,And shifts where the song-wind blows.

TYRANNY

There is not aught more mercilessThan such fast lips that will not speak,That stir not if I curse or blessA God that made them weak.More madd'ning to one there is naught,Than such white eyelids sealed on eyes,Eyes vacant of the thing named thought,An exile in the skies.Ah, silent tongue! ah, ear so dull!How angel utterances lowHave wooed you! they more beautifulThan mortal harsh with woe!

VISIONS

When the snow was deep on the flower-beds,And the sleet was caked on the brier;When the frost was down in the brown bulbs' heads,And the ways were clogged with mire;When the wind to syringa and bare rose-treeBrought the phantoms of vanished flowers,And the days were sorry as sorry could be,And Time limped cursing his fardle of hours:Heigho! had I not a book and the logs?And I swear that I wasn't mistaken,But I heard the frogs croaking in far-off bogs,And the brush-sparrow's song in the braken.And I strolled by paths which the Springtide knew,In her mossy dells, by her ferny passes,Where the ground was holy with flowers and dew,And the insect life in the grasses.And I knew the Spring as a lover who knowsHis sweetheart, to whom he has givenA kiss on the cheek that warmed its white rose,In her eyes brought the laughter of heaven.For a poem I'd read, a simple thing,A little lyric that had the powerTo make the brush-sparrow come and sing,And the winter woodlands flower.

THE OLD BYWAY

Its rotting fence one scarcely seesThrough sumach and wild blackberries,Thick elder and the white wild-rose,Big ox-eyed daisies where the beesHang droning in repose.The limber lizards glide awayGray on its moss and lichens gray;Warm butterflies float in the sun,Gay Ariels of the lonesome day;And there the ground squirrels run.The red-bird stays one note to lift;High overhead dark swallows drift;'Neath sun-soaked clouds of beaten cream,Through which hot bits of azure sift,The gray hawks soar and scream.Among the pungent weeds they fillDry grasshoppers pipe with a will;And in the grass-grown ruts, where stirsThe basking snake, mole-crickets shrill;O'er head the locust whirrs.At evening, when the sad West turnsTo dusky Night a cheek that burns,The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing,And ghosts of long-dead flowers and fernsThe wind wakes whispering.

DIURNAL

IA molten ruby clear as wineAlong the east the dawning swims;The morning-glories swing and shine,The night dews bead their satin rims;The bees rob sweets from shrub and vine,The gold hangs on their limbs.Sweet morn, the South,A royal lover,From his fragrant mouth,Sweet morn, the SouthBreathes on and overKeen scents of wild honey and rosy clover.IIBeside the wall the roses blowLong summer noons the winds forsake;Beside the wall the poppies glowSo full of fire their hearts do ache;The dipping butterflies come slow,Half dreaming, half awake.Sweet noontide, rest,A slave-girl wearyWith her babe at her breast;Sweet noontide, rest,The day grows drearyAs soft limbs that are tired and eyes that are teary.IIIAlong lone paths the cricket criesSad summer nights that know the dew;One mad star thwart the heavens fliesCurved glittering on the glassy blue;Now grows the big moon on the skies.The stars are faint and few.Sweet night, breathe thouWith a passion takenFrom a Romeo's vow;Sweet night, breathe thouLike a beauty shakenOf amorous dreams that have made her waken.

THE WOOD-PATH

Here doth white Spring white violets show,Broadcast doth white, frail wind-flowers sowThrough starry mosses amber-fair,As delicate as ferns that grow,Hart's-tongue and maiden-hair.Here fungus life is beautiful,White mushroom and the thick toad-stoolAs various colored as wild blooms;Existences that love the cool,Distinct in rank perfumes.Here stray the wandering cows to rest,The calling cat-bird builds her nestIn spice-wood bushes dark and deep;Here raps the woodpecker his best,And here young rabbits leap.Tall butternuts and hickories,The pawpaw and persimmon trees,The beech, the chestnut, and the oak,Wall shadows huge, like ghosts of beesThrough which gold sun-bits soak.Here to pale melancholy moons.In haunted nights of dreamy Junes,Wails wildly the weird whippoorwill,Whose mournful and demonic tunesWild woods with phantoms fill.

DEFICIENCY

Ah, God! were I away, away,By woodland-belted hills!There might be more in Thy bright dayThan my poor spirit thrills.The elder coppice, banks of blooms,The spice-wood brush, the fieldOf tumbled clover, and perfumesHot, weedy pastures yield.The old rail-fence whose angles holdBright briar and sassafras,Sweet priceless wild flowers blue and goldStarred through the moss and grass.The ragged path that winds untoLone cow-behaunted nooks,Through brambles to the shade and dewOf rocks and woody brooks.To see the minnows turn and gleamWhite sparkling bellies, allShoot in gray schools adown the streamLet but a dead leaf fall.The buoyant pleasure and delightOf floating feathered seeds.Capricious wanderers soft and whiteBorn of silk-bearing weeds.Ah, God! were I away, away,Among wild woods and birds!There were more soul within Thy dayThan one might bless with words.

HE WHO LOVES

For him God's birds each merry mornMake of wild throats melodious flutesTo trill such love from brush and thornAs might brim eyes of brutes:Who would believe of such a thing,That 'tis her heart which makes them sing?For him the faultless skies of noonGrow farther in eternal blue,As heavens that buoy the balanced moon,And sow the stars and dew:Who would believe that such deep skiesAre miracles only through her eyes?For him mad sylphs adown domed nightsStud golden globules radiant,Or glass-green transient trails of lightsSpin from their orbs and slant:Who would believe a soul were hersTo make for him a universe?

THE MONASTERY CROFT

1Big-stomached, like friarsWho ogle a nun,Quaff deep to their bellies' desiresFrom the old abbey's tun,Grapes fatten with firesWarm-filtered from moon and from sun.2As a novice who muses, —Lips a rosary tell,While her thoughts are – a love she refuses?– Nay! mourns as not well:The ripe apple loosesIts holding to rot where it fell.

THE DRYAD

I have seen her limpid eyesLarge with gradual laughter riseThrough wild-roses' nettles,Like twin blossoms grow and stare,Then a hating, envious airWhisked them into petals.I have seen her hardy cheekLike a molten coral leakThrough the leafage shadedOf thick Chickasaws, and then,When I made more sure, againTo a red plum faded.I have found her racy lips,And her graceful finger-tips,But a haw and berry;Glimmers of her there and here,Just, forsooth, enough to cheerAnd to make me merry.Often on the ferny rocksDazzling rimples of loose locksAt me she hath shaken,And I've followed – 'twas in vain —They had trickled into rainSun-lit on the braken.Once her full limbs flashed on me,Naked where some royal treePowdered all the spacesWith wan sunlight and quaint shade,Such a haunt romance hath madeFor haunched satyr-races.There, I wot, hid amorous Pan,For a sudden pleading ranThrough the maze of myrtle,Whiles a rapid violence tossedAll its flowerage, – 'twas the lostCooings of a turtle.

"THE SWEET O' THE YEAR."

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