Grass of Parnassus

DREAMS

He spake not truth, however wise, who said   That happy, and that hapless men in sleep   Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deepAs countless, careless, races of the dead.Not so, for alien paths of dreams we tread,   And one beholds the faces that he sighs   In vain to bring before his daylit eyes,And waking, he remembers on his bed;And one with fainting heart and feeble handFights a dim battle in a doubtful land   Where strength and courage were of no avail;And one is borne on fairy breezes farTo the bright harbours of a golden star   Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale.

TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS

‘Les Sirènes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de Proserpine, qu’elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste deul de la perte de leur chère compagne, et enuyées jusques au desepoir, elles s’arrestèrent à la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l’unique fin de la volupté de leur musique est la Mort.’

Pontus de Tyard, 1570The Sirens once were maidens innocent   That through the water-meads with ProserpinePlucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content   Cool fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine,   With lilies woven and with wet woodbine;Till once they sought the bright Ætnæan flowers,And their glad mistress fled from summer hours   With Hades, far from olive, corn, and vine.And they have sought her all the wide world through   Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrongHave filled and changed their song, and o’er the blue   Rings deadly sweet the magic of the song,And whoso hears must listen till he dieFar on the flowery shores of Sicily.So is it with this singing art of ours,   That once with maids went maidenlike, and played   With woven dances in the poplar-shade,And all her song was but of lady’s bowersAnd the returning swallows, and spring flowers,   Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed,   A shadowy land; and now hath overweighedHer singing chaplet with the snow and showers.Yes, fair well-water for the bitter brine   She left, and by the margin of life’s sea      Sings, and her song is full of the sea’s moan,And wild with dread, and love of Proserpine;   And whoso once has listened to her, he      His whole life long is slave to her alone.

TRANSLATIONS

HYMN TO THE WINDS

THE WINDS ARE INVOKED BY THE WINNOWERS OF CORNDU BELLAY, 1550To you, troop so fleet,That with winged wandering feet,   Through the wide world pass,And with soft murmuringToss the green shades of spring   In woods and grass,Lily and violetI give, and blossoms wet,   Roses and dew;This branch of blushing roses,Whose fresh bud uncloses,   Wind-flowers too.Ah, winnow with sweet breath,Winnow the holt and heath,   Round this retreat;Where all the golden momWe fan the gold o’ the corn,   In the sun’s heat.

MOONLIGHT

JACQUES TAHUREAUThe high Midnight was garlanding her head   With many a shining star in shining skies,And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes,   And, after sorrow, quietness was shed.Far in dim fields cicalas jargonèd   A thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries;And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise,   With pallor of the sad moon overspread.Then came my lady to that lonely place,And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace   And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over;Wherefore the day is far less dear than night,And sweeter is the shadow than the light,   Since night has made me such a happy lover.

THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE

VICTOR HUGOThe Grave said to the Rose,   ‘What of the dews of morn,Love’s flower, what end is theirs?’   ‘And what of souls outworn,Of them whereon doth close   The tomb’s mouth unawares?’The Rose said to the Grave.The Rose said, ‘In the shade   From the dawn’s tears is madeA perfume faint and strange,   Amber and honey sweet.’   ‘And all the spirits fleetDo suffer a sky-change,   More strangely than the dew,   To God’s own angels new,’The Grave said to the Rose.

A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS

DU BELLAYWe that with like hearts love, we lovers twain,New wedded in the village by thy fane,Lady of all chaste love, to thee it isWe bring these amaranths, these white lilies,A sign, and sacrifice; may Love, we pray,Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay;Like these cool lilies may our loves remain,Perfect and pure, and know not any stain;And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour,Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower.

OF HIS LADY’S OLD AGE

RONSARDWhen you are very old, at eveningYou’ll sit and spin beside the fire, and say,   Humming my songs, ‘Ah well, ah well-a-day!When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.’None of your maidens that doth hear the thing,   Albeit with her weary task foredone,   But wakens at my name, and calls you oneBlest, to be held in long remembering.I shall be low beneath the earth, and laidOn sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade,   While you beside the fire, a grandame grey,My love, your pride, remember and regret;Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet,   And gather roses, while ’t is called to-day.

SHADOWS OF HIS LADY

JACQUES TAHUREAUWithin the sand of what far river liesThe gold that gleams in tresses of my Love?   What highest circle of the Heavens aboveIs jewelled with such stars as are her eyes?And where is the rich sea whose coral vies   With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough?What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof   The fled soul lives in her cheeks’ rosy guise?What Parian marble that is loveliestCan match the whiteness of her brow and breast?   When drew she breath from the Sabæan glade?Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea,Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that be   The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!

APRIL

RÉMY BELLEAU, 1560April, pride of woodland ways,   Of glad days,April, bringing hope of prime,   To the young flowers that beneath   Their bud sheathAre guarded in their tender time;April, pride of fields that be   Green and free,That in fashion glad and gay,Stud with flowers red and blue,   Every hue,Their jewelled spring array;April, pride of murmuring   Winds of spring,That beneath the winnowed air,Trap with subtle nets and sweet   Flora’s feet,Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;April, by thy hand caressed,   From her breast,Nature scatters everywhereHandfuls of all sweet perfumes,   Buds and blooms,Making faint the earth and air.April, joy of the green hours,   Clothes with flowersOver all her locks of goldMy sweet Lady; and her breast   With the blestBuds of summer manifold.April, with thy gracious wiles,   Like the smiles,Smiles of Venus; and thy breathLike her breath, the gods’ delight,   (From their heightThey take the happy air beneath;)It is thou that, of thy grace,   From their placeIn the far-off isles dost bringSwallows over earth and sea,   Glad to beMessengers of thee, and Spring.Daffodil and eglantine,   And woodbine,Lily, violet, and rosePlentiful in April fair,   To the air,Their pretty petals to unclose.Nightingales ye now may hear,   Piercing clear,Singing in the deepest shade;Many and many a babbled note   Chime and float,Woodland music through the glade.April, all to welcome thee,   Spring sets freeAncient flames, and with low breathWakes the ashes grey and old   That the coldChilled within our hearts to death.Thou beholdest in the warm   Hours, the swarmOf the thievish bees, that fliesEvermore from bloom to bloom   For perfume,Hid away in tiny thighs.Her cool shadows May can boast,   Fruits almostRipe, and gifts of fertile dew,Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,   That completeHer flower garland fresh and new.Nay, but I will give my praise   To these days,   Named with the glad name of Her 4That from out the foam o’ the sea   Came to beSudden light on earth and air.

AN OLD TUNE

GÉRARD DE NERVALThere is an air for which I would disown   Mozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies, —A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs,   And keeps its secret charm for me alone.Whene’er I hear that music vague and old,   Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold   A green land golden in the dying day.An old red castle, strong with stony towers,   The windows gay with many-coloured glass;Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,   That bathe the castle basement as they pass.In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,   A lady looks forth from her window high;It may be that I knew and found her fair,   In some forgotten life, long time gone by.

OLD LOVES

HENRI MURGERLouise, have you forgotten yet   The corner of the flowery land,The ancient garden where we met,   My hand that trembled in your hand?Our lips found words scarce sweet enough,   As low beneath the willow-treesWe sat; have you forgotten, love?   Do you remember, love Louise?Marie, have you forgotten yet   The loving barter that we made?The rings we changed, the suns that set,   The woods fulfilled with sun and shade?The fountains that were musical   By many an ancient trysting tree —Marie, have you forgotten all?   Do you remember, love Marie?Christine, do you remember yet   Your room with scents and roses gay?My garret – near the sky ’twas set —   The April hours, the nights of May?The clear calm nights – the stars above   That whispered they were fairest seenThrough no cloud-veil?  Remember, love!   Do you remember, love Christine?Louise is dead, and, well-a-day!   Marie a sadder path has ta’en;And pale Christine has passed away   In southern suns to bloom again.Alas! for one and all of us —   Marie, Louise, Christine forget;Our bower of love is ruinous,   And I alone remember yet.

A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE

I be pareld most of prise,I ride after the wild fee.Will ye that I should singOf the love of a goodly thing,   Was no vilein’s may?’Tis all of a knight so free,Under the olive tree,   Singing this lay.Her weed was of samite fine,Her mantle of white ermine,   Green silk her hose;Her shoon with silver gay,Her sandals flowers of May,   Laced small and close.Her belt was of fresh spring buds,Set with gold clasps and studs,   Fine linen her shift;Her purse it was of love,Her chain was the flower thereof,   And Love’s gift.Upon a mule she rode,The selle was of brent gold,   The bits of silver made;Three red rose trees there wereThat overshadowed her,   For a sun shade.She riding on a day,Knights met her by the way,   They did her grace:‘Fair lady, whence be ye?’‘France it is my countrie,   I come of a high race.‘My sire is the nightingale,That sings, making his wail,   In the wild wood, clear;The mermaid is mother to me,That sings in the salt sea,   In the ocean mere.’‘Ye come of a right good race,And are born of a high place,   And of high degree;Would to God that ye wereGiven unto me, being fair,   My lady and love to be.’

IANNOULA

ROMAIC FOLK-SONGAll the maidens were merry and wed   All to lovers so fair to see;The lover I took to my bridal bed   He is not long for love and me.I spoke to him and he nothing said,   I gave him bread of the wheat so fine;He did not eat of the bridal bread,   He did not drink of the bridal wine.I made him a bed was soft and deep,   I made him a bed to sleep with me;‘Look on me once before you sleep,   And look on the flower of my fair body.‘Flowers of April, and fresh May-dew,   Dew of April and buds of May;Two white blossoms that bud for you,   Buds that blossom before the day.’

THE MILK-WHITE DOE

FRENCH VOLKS-LIEDIt was a mother and a maid   That walked the woods among,And still the maid went slow and sad,   And still the mother sung.‘What ails you, daughter Margaret?   Why go you pale and wan?Is it for a cast of bitter love,   Or for a false leman?’‘It is not for a false lover   That I go sad to see;But it is for a weary life   Beneath the greenwood tree.‘For ever in the good daylight   A maiden may I go,But always on the ninth midnight   I change to a milk-white doe.‘They hunt me through the green forest   With hounds and hunting men;And ever it is my fair brother   That is so fierce and keen.’* * * * *‘Good-morrow, mother.’  ‘Good-morrow, son;   Where are your hounds so good?’‘Oh, they are hunting a white doe   Within the glad greenwood.‘And three times have they hunted her,   And thrice she’s won away;The fourth time that they follow her   That white doe they shall slay.’* * * * *Then out and spoke the forester,   As he came from the wood,‘Now never saw I maid’s gold hair   Among the wild deer’s blood.‘And I have hunted the wild deer   In east lands and in west;And never saw I white doe yet   That had a maiden’s breast.’Then up and spake her fair brother,   Between the wine and bread:‘Behold I had but one sister,   And I have been her dead.‘But ye must bury my sweet sister   With a stone at her foot and her head,And ye must cover her fair body   With the white roses and red.‘And I must out to the greenwood,   The roof shall never shelter me;And I shall lie for seven long years   On the grass below the hawthorn tree.’

HELIODORE

(MELEAGER.)Pour wine, and cry again, again, again!   To Heliodore!And mingle the sweet word ye call in vain   With that ye pour!And bring to me her wreath of yesterday   That’s dank with myrrh;Hesternæ Rosæ, ah my friends, but they   Remember her!Lo the kind roses, loved of lovers, weep   As who repine,For if on any breast they see her sleep   It is not mine!

THE PROPHET

(ANTIPHILUS.)I knew it in your childish grace   The dawning of Desire,‘Who lives,’ I said, ‘will see that face   Set all the world on fire!’They mocked; but Time has brought to pass   The saying over-true;Prophet and martyr now, alas,   I burn for Truth, – and you!

LAIS

(POMPEIUS.)Lais that bloomed for all the world’s delight,   Crowned with all love lilies, the fair and dear,Sleeps the predestined sleep, nor knows the flight   Of Helios, the gold-reined charioteer:Revel, and kiss, and love, and hate, one Night   Darkens, that never lamp of Love may cheer!

CLEARISTA

(MELEAGER.)For Death, not for Love, hast thou   Loosened thy zone!Flutes filled thy bower but now,   Morning brings moan!Maids round thy bridal bed   Hushed are in gloom,Torches to Love that led   Light to the tomb!

THE FISHERMAN’S TOMB

(LEONIDAS OF TARENTUM.)Theris the Old, the waves that harvested   More keen than birds that labour in the sea,With spear and net, by shore and rocky bed,   Not with the well-manned galley laboured he;Him not the star of storms, nor sudden sweep   Of wind with all his years hath smitten and bent,But in his hut of reeds he fell asleep,   As fades a lamp when all the oil is spent:This tomb nor wife nor children raised, but weHis fellow-toilers, fishers of the sea.

OF HIS DEATH

(MELEAGER.)Ah Love, my Master, hear me swearBy all the locks of Timo’s hair,By Demo, and that fragrant spellWherewith her body doth enchantSuch dreams as drowsy lovers haunt,By Ilias’ mirth delectable.And by the lamp that sheds his lightOn love and lovers all the night,By those, ah Love, I swear that thouHast left me but one breath, and nowUpon my lips it fluttereth,Yet this I’ll yield, my latest breath,Even this, oh Love, for thee to Death!

RHODOPE

(RUFINUS.)Thou hast Hera’s eyes, thou hast Pallas’ hands,And the feet of the Queen of the yellow sands,Thou hast beautiful Aphrodite’s breast,Thou art made of each goddess’s loveliest!Happy is he who sees thy face,Happy who hears thy words of grace,And he that shall kiss thee is half divine,But a god who shall win that heart of thine!

TO A GIRL

(ASCLEPIADES.)Believe me, love, it is not goodTo hoard a mortal maidenhood;In Hades thou wilt never find,Maiden, a lover to thy mind;Love’s for the living! presentlyAshes and dust in death are we!

TO THE SHIPS

(MELEAGER.)O gentle ships that skim the seas,And cleave the strait where Hellé fell,Catch in your sails the Northern breeze,   And speed to Cos, where she doth dwell,   My Love, and see you greet her well!And if she looks across the blue,Speak, gentle ships, and tell her true,‘He comes, for Love hath brought him back,No sailor, on the landward tack.’If thus, oh gentle ships, ye do,   Then may ye win the fairest gales,And swifter speed across the blue,   While Zeus breathes friendly on your sails.

A LATE CONVERT

(PAULUS SILENTIARIUS.)I that in youth had never beenThe servant of the Paphian Queen,I that in youth had never feltThe shafts of Eros pierce and melt,Cypris! in later age, half grey,I bow the neck to thee to-day.Pallas, that was my lady, thouDost more triumphant vanquish now,Than when thou gained’st, over seas,The apple of the Hesperides.

THE LIMIT OF LIFE

Thirty-six is the term that the prophets assign,And the students of stars to the years that are mine;Nay, let thirty suffice, for the man who hath passedThirty years is a Nestor, and he died at last!

TO DANIEL ELZEVIR

(FROM THE LATIN OF MÉNAGE.)What do I see!  Oh gods divineAnd goddesses, – this Book of mine, —This child of many hopes and fears, —Is published by the Elzevirs!Oh perfect Publishers complete!Oh dainty volume, new and neat!The Paper doth outshine the snow,The Print is blacker than the crow,The Title-Page, with crimson bright,The vellum cover smooth and white,All sorts of readers do invite,Ay, and will keep them reading still,Against their will, or with their will!Thus what of grace the Rhymes may lackThe Publisher has given them back,As Milliners adorn the fairWhose charms are something skimp and spare.Oh dulce decus, Elzevirs!The pride of dead and dawning years,How can a poet best repayThe debt he owes your House to-day?May this round world, while aught endures,Applaud, and buy, these books of yours!May purchasers incessant pop,My Elzevirs, within your shop,And learned bards salute, with cheers,The volumes of the Elzevirs,Till your renown fills earth and sky,Till men forget the Stephani,And all that Aldus wrought, and allTurnebus sold in shop or stall,While still may Fate’s (and Binders’) shearsRespect, and spare, the Elzevirs!

THE LAST CHANCE

THE LAST CHANCE

Within the streams, Pausanias saith,   That down Cocytus valley flow,Girdling the grey domain of Death,   The spectral fishes come and go;The ghosts of trout flit to and fro.   Persephone, fulfil my wish,And grant that in the shades below   My ghost may land the ghosts of fish.Φη λογοποιος ανήρ, δνοφερων εντοσθε ρεέθρων   οσσα πέριξ Αιδην εις ’Αχέροντα ρέειιχθύες ως αν’ αφεγγες υδωρ σκιαι αισσουσιν   ειδωλ’ ειδώλοις νηχόμενα πτερύγων.Φερσεφόνη, συ θανόντι δ’ εμοι κρήηνον εέλδωρ,   καν Αιδη σκιερους ιχθύας εξερύσαι.L. C.

1

January 26, 1885.

2

M. Antoninus iv 23.

3

From the Romaic.

4

Aphrodite – Avril.