Poems

PROMETHEUS UNBOUND

I, who lie warming here by your good fire,Was once Prometheus and elsewhere have lain;Ah, still in dreams they come,—the sudden chain,The swooping birds, the silence, the desireOf pitying, powerless eyes, the night, and higherThe keen stars; (if you please I fill againThe bowl, Silenus)—; yet ’twas common painTheir beaks’ mad rooting; O, but they would tire,And one go circling o’er the misty vastOn great, free wings, and one sit, head out-bent,Poised for the plunge; then ’twas I crushed the cry“Zeus, Zeus, I kiss your feet, and learn at lastThe baseness of this crude self-governmentMatched with glad impulse and blind liberty.”

KING MOB

Dismiss, O sweet King Mob, your foot-lickers!When you held court last night I too was thereTo listen, and in truth well nigh despairO’ercame me when I saw your greedy earsDrink such gross poison. I could weep hot tearsTo think how three drugged words avail to keepA waking people still on the edge of sleep,And lose the world a right good score of years.I love you too, big Anarch, lately born,Half beast, yet with a stupid heart of man,And since I love, would God that I could warnWork out the beast as shortly as you can,Till which time oath of mine shall ne’er be sworn,Nor knee be bent to you, King Caliban.

THE MODERN ELIJAH

What went ye forth to see? a shaken reed?—Ye throngers of the Parthenon last night.Prophet, yea more than prophet, we agreed;No John a’ Desert with the girdle tight,And locusts and wild honey for his need,Before the dreadful day appears in sightUrging one word to make the conscience bleed,But an obese John Smith, “a shining light”(Our chairman felt), “an honour to his creed.”O by the gas, when buns and tea had wroughtUpon our hearts, how grew the Future bright,—The Press, the Institutes, Advance of Thought,And People’s Books, till every mother’s sonCan prove there is a God, or there is none.

DAVID AND MICHAL

(2 Samuel vi. 16)

But then you don’t mean really what you say—To hear this from the sweetest little lips,O’er which each pretty word daintily tripsLike small birds hopping down a garden way,When I had given my soul full scope to playFor once before her in the Orphic styleCaught from three several volumes of Carlyle,And undivulged before this very day!O young men of our earnest school confessHow it is deeply, darkly tragicalTo find the feminine souls we would adoreSo full of sense, so versed in worldly lore,So deaf to the Eternal Silences,So unbelieving, so conventional.

WINDLE-STRAWS

I

Under grey clouds some birds will dare to sing,No wild exultant chants, but soft and low;Under grey clouds the young leaves seek the spring,And lurking violets blow.And waves make idle music on the strand,And inland streams have lucky words to say,And children’s voices sound across the landAlthough the clouds be grey.

II

Only maidenhood and youth,Only eyes that are most fair,And the pureness of a mouth,And the grace of golden hair,Yet beside her we grow wise,And we breathe a finer air.Words low-utter’d, simple-sweet,—Yet, nor songs of morning birds,Nor soft whisperings of the wheatMore than such clear-hearted wordsMake us wait, and love, and listen,Stir more mellow heart accords.Only maiden-motions light,Only smiles that sweetly go,Girlish laughter pure and bright,And a footfall like the snow,What in these should make us wise?What should bid the blossom blow?Child! on thee God’s angels wait,’Tis their robes that wave and part,Make this summer air elate,Fresh and fragrant, and thou artBut a simple child indeed,One dare cherish to the heart.

III

Were life to last for ever, love,We might go hand in hand,And pause and pull the flowers that blowIn all the idle land,And we might lie in sunny fieldsAnd while the hours awayWith fallings-out and fallings-inFor half a summer day.But since we two must sever, love,Since some dim hour we part,I have no time to give thee muchBut quickly take my heart,“For ever thine,” and “thine my love,”—O Death may come apace,What more of love could life bestow,Dearest, than this embrace.

IV

Now drops in the abyss a day of life:I count my twelve hours’ gain;—Tired senses? vain desires? a baffled strife,Vexed heart and beating brain?Ten pages traversed by a languid eye?—Nay, but one moment’s spaceI gazed into the soul of the blue sky;Rare day! O day of grace!

V

She kissed me on the forehead,She spoke not any word,The silence flowed between us,And I nor spoke nor stirred.So hopeless for my sake it was,So full of ruth, so sweet,My whole heart rose and blessed her,—Then died before her feet.

VI

Nay, more! yet more, for my lips are fain;No cups for a babe; I ask the wholeDeep draught that a God could hardly drain,—Wine of your soul.Pour! for the goblet is great I bring,Not worthless, rough with youths at strife,And men that toil and women that sing,—It is all my life.

VII

Look forward with those steadfast eyesO Pilot of our star!It sweeps through rains and driving snows,Strong Angel, gaze afar!Seest thou a zone of golden air?Hearest thou the March-winds ring?Or is thy heart prophetic yetWith stirrings of the Spring?

VIII

Words for my song like sighing of dim seas,Words with no thought in them,—a piping reed,An infant’s cry, a moan low-uttered,—theseAre all the words I need.Others have song for broad-winged winds that pass,For stars and sun, for standing men around;I put my mouth low down into the grass,And whisper to the ground.HERE END THE POEMS WHICH WERE FIRST PUBLISHED IN A VOLUME IN 1876

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF LATER DATES

AT THE OAR

I dare not lift a glance to you, yet stayYe Gracious Ones, still save me, hovering near;If music live upon mine inward ear,I know ye lean bright brow to brow, and sayYour secret things; if rippling breezes playCool on my cheeks, it is those robes ye wearThat wave, and shadowy fragrance of your hairDrifted, the fierce noon fervour to allay,Fierce fervour, ceaseless stroke, small speed, and IFind grim contentment in the servile mood;But should I gaze in yon untrammelled skyOnce, or behold your dewy eyes, my bloodWould madden, and I should fling with one free cryMy body headlong in the whelming flood.

THE DIVINING ROD

Here some time flowed my springs and sent a cryOf joy before them up the shining air,While morn was new, and heaven all blue and bare;Here dipped the swallow to a tenderer sky,And o’er my flowers lean’d some pure mysteryOf liquid eyes and golden-glimmering hair;For which now, drouth and death, a bright despair,Shards, choking slag, the world’s dust small and dry.Yet turn not hence thy faithful foot, O thou,Diviner of my buried life; pace round,Poising the hazel-wand; believe and wait,Listen and lean; ah, listen! even nowStirrings and murmurings of the undergroundPrelude the flash and outbreak of my fate.

SALOME

(By Henri Regnault)

Fair sword of doom, and bright with martyr blood,Thee Regnault saw not as mine eyes have seen;No Judith of the Faubourg, mænad-queen,Pale on her tumbril-throne, when the live floodFoams through revolted Paris, unwithstood,Is of thy kin. Blossom and bud between,Clear-brow’d Salome, with her silk head’s sheen,Lips where a linnet might have pecked for food,Pure curves of neck, and dimpling hand aloft,Moved like a wave at sunrise. Herod said—“A boon for maiden freshness! Ask of meWhat toy may please, though half my Galilee;”And with beseeching eyes, and bird-speech soft,She fluted: “Give me here John Baptist’s head.”

WATERSHED

Now on life’s crest we breathe the temperate air;Turn either way; the parted paths o’erlook;Dear, we shall never bid the Sphinx despair,Nor read in Sibyl’s book.The blue bends o’er us; good are Night and Day;Some blissful influence from the starry SevenThrilled us ere youth took wing; wherefore essayThe vain assault on heaven?And what great Word Life’s singing lips pronounce,And what intends the sealing kiss of Death,It skills us not; yet we accept, renounce,And draw this tranquil breath.Enough, one thing we know, haply anonAll truths; yet no truths better or more clearThan that your hand holds my hand; wherefore on!The downward pathway, Dear!

THE GUEST

Rude is the dwelling, low the door,No chamber this where men may feast,I strew clean rushes on the floor,Set wide my window to the East.I can but set my little roomIn order, then gaze forth and wait;I know not if the Guest will come,Who holds aloft his starry state.

MORITURUS

Lord, when my hour to part is come,And all the powers of being sink,When eyes are filmed, and lips are dumb,And scarce I hang upon the brink.Grant me but this—in that strange lightOr blind amid confused alarms,One moment’s strength to stand uprightAnd cast myself into Thy arms.

ALONE

This is the shore of God’s lone love, which stirsAnd heaves to some majestic tidal law;And bright the illimitable horizons’ awe;God’s love; yet all my soul cries out for hers.

FAME

My arches crumble; that bright dome I flungHeavenward in pride decays; yet all unmovedOne column soars, and, graven in sacred tongue,Endure the victor words—“This man was loved.”

WHERE WERT THOU?

Where wert Thou, Master, ’mid that rain of tears,When grey the waste before me stretched and wide,And when with boundless silence ached mine ears?“Child, I was at thy side.”Where wert Thou when I trod the obscure wood,And one lone cry of sorrow was the wind,And drop by heavy drop failed my heart’s blood?“Before thee and behind.”Where wert Thou when I fell and lay aloneFaithless and hopeless, yet through one dear smartNot loveless quite, making my empty moan?“Son, I was in thy heart.”

A WISH

Could I roll off two heavy yearsThat lie on me like lead;And see you past their cloudy tears,Nor dream that you are dead.I would not touch your lips, your hair,Your breast, that once were mine;Ah! not for me in Faith’s despairLove’s sacramental wine.Find you I must for only thisIn some new earth or heaven,To bare my sorry heart, and kissYour feet and be forgiven.

THE GIFT

“Now I draw near: alone, apartI stood, nor deemed I should requireSuch access, till my musing heartSuddenly kindled to desire.No farther from Thee than Thy feet!No less a sight than all Thy face!Nay, touch me where the heart doth beat,Breathe where the throbbing brain hath place.Yield me the best, the unnamed good,The gift which most shall prove me near,Thy wine for drink, Thy fruit for food,Thy tokens of the nail, the spear!”Such cry was mine: I lifted upMy face from treacherous speech to cease,Daring to take the bitter cup,But ah! Thy perfect gift was peace.Quiet deliverance from all need,A little space of boundless rest,To live within the Light indeedTo lean upon the Master’s breast.

RECOVERY

I joy to know I shall rejoice againBorne upward on the good tide of the world,Shall mark the cowslip tossed, the fern uncurledAnd hear the enraptured lark high o’er my pain,And o’er green graves; and I shall love the waneOf sea-charm’d sunsets with all winds upfurl’d,And that great gale adown whose stream are whirl’d,Pale autumn dreams, dead hopes, and broodings vain.Nor do I fear that I shall faintlier blessThe joy of youth and maid, or the gold hairOf a wild-hearted child; then, none the less,Instant within my shrine, no man aware,Feed on a living sorrow’s sacredness,And lean my forehead on this altar-stair.

IF IT MIGHT BE

If it might be, I would not have my leavesDrop in autumnal stillness one by one,Like these pale fluttering waifs that heap sad sheavesThrough mere inertia trembling, tottering down.Better one roaring day, one wrestling night,The dark musician’s fiercer harmony,And then abandoned bareness, or the lightOf strange discovered skies, if it might be.

WINTER NOONTIDE

I go forth now, but not to fill my lapWith violets and white sorrel of the wood;This is a winter noon; and I may hapUpon a few dry sticks, and fire is good.A quickening shrewdness edges the fore wind;Some things stand clear in this dismantled hourWhich deep-leaved June had hidden; earth is kind,The heaven is wide, and fire shall be my flower.

THE POOL

A wood obscure in this man’s haunt of love,And midmost in the wood where leaves fall sere,A pool unplumbed; no winds these waters move,Gathered as in a vase from year to year.And he has thought that he himself lies drowned,Wan-faced where the pale water glimmereth,And that the voiceless man who paces roundThe brink, nor sheds a tear now, is his wraith.

THE DESIRE TO GIVE

They who would comfort guess not the main grief—Not that her hand is never on my hair,Her lips upon my brow; the time is briefAt longest, and I grow inured to bear.All that was ever mine I have and hold;But that I cannot give by day or nightMy poor gift which was dear to her of old,And poorly given—that loss is infinite.

A BEECH-TREE IN WINTER

Now in the frozen gloom I trace thy girth,Broad beech, that with lit leaves upon a dayWhen heaven was wide and down the meadow MayMoved bride-like, touched my forehead in sweet mirth,And blissful secrets told of the deep Earth,Low in mine ear; wherefore this eve I layMy hand thus close till stirrings faint bewrayThy piteous secrets of the days of dearth,Silence! yet to my heart from thine has passedDivine contentment; it is well with thee;Still let the stars slide o’er thee whispering fate,The might be in thee of the shouldering blast,Still let fire-fingered snow thy tiremaid be,Still bearing springtime in thy bosom wait.

JUDGMENT

I stand for judgment; vain the willTo judge myself, O Lord!I cannot sunder good from illWith a dividing sword.How should I know myself aright,Who would by Thee be known?Let me stand naked in Thy sight;Thy doom shall be my own.Slay in me that which would be slain!Thy justice be my grace!If aught survive the joy, the pain,Still must it seek Thy face.

DÜRER’S “MELENCHOLIA”

The bow of promise, this lost flaring star,Terror and hope are in mid-heaven; but She,The mighty-wing’d crown’d Lady Melancholy,Heeds not. O to what vision’d goal afarDoes her thought bear those steadfast eyes which areA torch in darkness? There nor shore nor sea,Nor ebbing Time vexes Eternity,Where that lone thought outsoars the mortal bar.Tools of the brain—the globe, the cube—no moreShe deals with; in her hand the compass stays;Nor those, industrious genius, of her loreStudent and scribe, thou gravest of the fays,Expect this secret to enlarge thy store;She moves through incommunicable ways.

MILLET’S “THE SOWER”

Son of the Earth, brave flinger of the seed,Strider of furrows, copesmate of the morn,Which, stirr’d with quickenings now of day unborn,Approves the mystery of thy fruitful deed;Thou, young in hope and old as man’s first need,Through all the hours that laugh, the hours that mourn,Hold’st to one strenuous faith, by time unworn,Sure of the miracle—that the clod will breed.Dark is this upland, pallid still the sky,And man, rude bondslave of the glebe, goes forthTo labour; serf, yet genius of the soil,Great his abettors—a confederacyOf mightiest Powers, old laws of heaven and earth,Foresight and Faith, and ever-during Toil.

AT MULLION (CORNWALL)

SundayWhere the blue dome is infinite,And choral voices of the seaChaunt the high lauds, or meek, as now,Intone their ancient litany;Where through his ritual pomp still movesThe Sun in robe pontifical,Whose only creed is catholic light,Whose benediction is for all;I enter with glad face uplift,Asperged on brow and brain and heart;I am confessed, absolved, illumed,Receive my blessing and depart.

THE WINNOWER TO THE WINDS

(From Joachim de Bellay)

To yon light troop, who flyOn wing that hurries byThe wide world over,And with soft sibilanceBid every shadow danceOf the glad cover.These violets I consignLilies and sops-in-wineRoses, all yours,These roses vermeil-tincturedTheir graces new-uncincturedAnd gilly-flowers.So with your gentle breathBlow on the plain beneathThrough my grange blow,What time I swink and strain,Winnowing my golden grainIn noontide’s glow.

EMERSON

Memnon the Yankee! bare to every star,But silent till one vibrant shaft of lightStrikes; then a voice thrilling, oracular,And clear harmonies through the infinite.

SENT TO AN AMERICAN SHAKESPEARE SOCIETY

’Twixt us through gleam and gloom in glorious playLeague-long the leonine billows ramp and roll,The same maturing sun illumes our day,Ripens our blood—the sun of Shakespeare’s soul.

NOCTURNE

Ere sleep upheaves me on one glassy billowTo drift me down the deep,I lie with easeful head upon my pillow,Letting the minutes creep.Until Time’s pulse is stayed and all earth’s riotFades in a limit white,While over me curve fragrant wings of quietTender and great as Night.Then I gaze up. Divine, descending slumberThine access yet forbear,Though vow I proffer none, nor blessings number,Nor breathe a wordless prayer.A Presence is within me and above me,That takes me for its own,A Motherhood, a bosom prompt to love me,I know it and am known.So softly I roll back the Spirit’s portals;O be the entrance wide!Silence and light from home of my ImmortalsFlow in, a tranquil tide.Calming, assuaging, cleansing, freshening, freeing,It floods each inlet deep;Now pass thou wave of Light, ebb thought and being!Come thou dark wave of sleep!

THE WHIRLIGIG

Glee at the cottage-doors to-day!Small hearts with joy are big;The merchant chanced to come our wayWho vends the whirligig.You know the marvel-stick of deal,And, where the top should taper,Pinned lightly, the ecstatic wheel,Flaunting its purple paper.Raptures a halfpenny each; and seeThe liberal-bosomed motherFaltering; they tug her skirts the three,(Ah, soon will come another!)Away they start! Swift, swifter flyThe buzzing, whirring chips,O eyes grown great! O gleesome cryFrom daubed, cherubic lips!I as companion of my walkHad chosen a soul heroic(So much I love superior talk)An Emperor and a Stoic.The cowslip tossed; upsoared the lark;Our choice was to recline usAgainst an elm-bole, I and MarkAurelius Antoninus.Pale victory lightened on his brow,Grieved conquest wrung from pain;Of Nature’s course he spake, and howMan should sustain, abstain.Physician of the soul, he spakeOf simples that allayThe blood, and how the nerves that acheFreeze under ethic spray.I turned; perhaps his touch of prideMoved me, a garb he wore;I saw those children eager-eyed,And Rome’s pale Emperor.“You miss,” I said, “born Nature’s rule,Her statutes unrepealed,You would remove us from the school,And from the playing-field.And if our griefs be vain, our joysVainer, all’s in the plan;For what are we but gamesome boys?Through these we grow to man.I to my hornbook now give heed,Now hear my playmates call,Will ‘chase the rolling circles speed,And urge the flying ball.’Joys, pains, hopes, fears,—a mingled heap,Grant me, nor Prince nor prig!I want, sad Emperor, rosy sleep,Leave me my whirligig.”In haste I spoke; such gusty talkOft wrongs these lips of mine;Under grey clouds some day I’ll walkAgain with Antonine.

PARADISE LOST AND FOUND

Eve, to tell truth, was not deceived;The snake’s word seemed to tallyWith something she herself conceived,Sick of her happy valley.The place amused her for a bit,(Some think ’twas half a day)Then came, alas! a desperate fitOf neurasthenia.She tired of lions bland and grand,She tired of thornless roses,She felt she could no longer standHer Adam’s courtly glozes.His “graceful consort,” “spouse adored,”His amorous-pious lectures;She found herself supremely bored,If one may risk conjectures.“Would he but scold for once!” sighed she,“De haut en bas caressings,Qualified by astronomy,Prove scarce unmingled blessings.”She strolled; fine gentlemen in wingsWould deftly light and stop her;She looked demure; half-missed her “things,”Half feared ’twas not quite proper.They asked for Adam, always him,Each affable Archangel,Nor heeded charms of neck or limb,Big with their stale evangel.They dined; her cookery instinct stirred;A dinner grew a dream,Not berries cold, eternal curd,And everlasting cream.Boon fruit was hers, but tame in sooth;One thought her soul would grapple—To get her little ivory toothDeep in some wicked apple.So, when that sinuous cavalierSpired near the tree of evil,The woman hasted to draw near;Such luck!—the genuine devil!And Satan, who to man had lied,Man ever prone to palter,The franker course with woman tried,Assured she would not falter.He spoke of freedom and its pains,Of passion and its sorrow,Of sacrifice, and nobler gainsWrung from a dark to-morrow.He did not shirk the names of death,Worn heart, a night of tears—If here the woman caught her breath,She dared to face her fears.Perhaps he touched on pretty needs,Named frill, flounce, furbelow,Perhaps referred to sable weeds,And dignity in woe.Glowed like two rose-leaves both ear-lobes,White grew her lips and set,The sly snake picturing small white robes,A roseate bassinet.He smiled; then squarely told the curse,Birth-pang, a lord and master;She hung her head—“It might be worse,It seems no huge disaster.”She mused—“A sin’s a sin at most;Life’s joy outweighs my sentence;What of my man, who now can boastA virtue so portentous?Best for him too! Sweat, workman’s groanAnd death which makes us even;I want a sinner of my own,Who finds my breast his heaven.”Our General Mother, which is trueThis tale, or that old story,Tradition’s fable convenueFashioned for Jahveh’s glory?

AFTER METASTASIO

If seeking me she ask “What hapBefel him? Whither is he fled,My friend, my poor unhappy friend?”Then softly answer “He is dead.”Yet no! May never pang so keenBe hers, and I the giver! Say,If word be spoken, this alone,“Weeping for you he went his way.”

THE CORN-CRAKE

I

Here let the bliss of summer and her nightBe on my heart as wide and pure as heaven;Now while o’er earth the tide of young delightBrims to the full, calm’d by the wizard Seven,And their high mistress, yon enchanted Moon;The air is faint, yet fresh as primrose buds,And dim with weft of honey-colour’d beams,A bride-robe for the new espousèd June,Who lies white-limbed among her flowers, nor dreams,Such a divine content her being floods.

II

Awake, awake! The silence hath a voice;Not thine, thou heart of fire, palpitatingUntil all griefs change countenance and rejoice,And all joys ache o’er-ripe since thou dost sing,Not thine this voice of the dry meadow-lands,Harsh iteration! note untuneable!Which shears the breathing quiet with a bladeOf ragged edge! Say, wilt thou ne’er be stillCrier in June’s high progress, whose commandsUpon no heedless drowzed heart are laid?

III

Nay, cease not till thy breast disquietedHath won a term of ease; the dewy grassTrackless at morn betrays not thy swift tread,And through smooth-closing air thy call-notes pass,To faint on yon soft-bosom’d pastoral steepThee bird the Night accepts; and I, through thee,Reach to embalmèd hearts of summers dead,Feel round my feet old, inland meadows deep,And bow o’er flowers that not a leaf have shed,Nor once have heard moan of an alien sea.

IV

Even while I muse thy halting-place doth shift,Now nearer, now more distant—I have seenWhen April, through her shining hair adrift,Gleams a farewell, and elms are fledged with green,The voiceful, wandering envoy of the Spring;Thee, never; though the mower’s scythe hath dashedThy nest aside, but thou hast sped askant,Viewless; then last we lose thee, and thy wingBrushes Nilotic maize and thou dost chauntHaply all night to stony ears of Pasht.

V

Ah, now an end to thy inveterate tale!The silence melts from the mid spheres of heaven;Enough! before this peace has time to failFrom out my soul, or yon white cloud has drivenUp the moon’s path I turn, and I will restOnce more with summer in my heart. Farewell!Shut are the wild-rose cups; no moth’s awhirr;My room will be moon-silvered from the westFor one more hour; thy note shall be a burrTo tease out thought and catch the slumbrous spell.

IN THE CATHEDRAL

The altar-lights burn low, the incense-fumeSickens: O listen, how the priestly prayerRuns as a fenland stream; a dim despairHails through their chaunt of praise, who here inhumeA clay-cold Faith within its carven tomb.But come thou forth into the vital airKeen, dark, and pure! grave Night is no betrayer,And if perchance some faint cold star illumeHer brow of mystery, shall we walk forlorn?An altar of the natural rock may riseSomewhere for men who seek; there may be borneOn the night-wind authentic prophecies:If not, let this—to breathe sane breath—suffice,Till in yon East, mayhap, the dark be worn.