Kitabı oku: «Rhymes a la Mode», sayfa 3

RONSARD’S GRAVE

 
Ye wells, ye founts that fall
From the steep mountain wall,
   That fall, and flash, and fleet
      With silver feet,
 
 
Ye woods, ye streams that lave
The meadows with your wave,
   Ye hills, and valley fair,
      Attend my prayer!
 
 
When Heaven and Fate decree
My latest hour for me,
   When I must pass away
      From pleasant day,
 
 
I ask that none my break
The marble for my sake,
   Wishful to make more fair
      My sepulchre.
 
 
Only a laurel tree
Shall shade the grave of me,
   Only Apollo’s bough
      Shall guard me now!
 
 
Now shall I be at rest
Among the spirits blest,
   The happy dead that dwell —
      Where, – who may tell?
 
 
The snow and wind and hail
May never there prevail,
   Nor ever thunder fall
      Nor storm at all.
 
 
But always fadeless there
The woods are green and fair,
   And faithful ever more
      Spring to that shore!
 
 
There shall I ever hear
Alcaeus’ music clear,
   And sweetest of all things
      There Sappho sings.
 

SAN TERENZO

(The village in the bay of Spezia, near which Shelley was living before the wreck of the Don Juan.)

 
Mid April seemed like some November day,
   When through the glassy waters, dull as lead,
Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,
   Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian bay,
   Rounded a point, – and San Terenzo lay
Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,
The roof that covered Shelley’s homeless head, —
   His house, a place deserted, bleak and grey.
 
 
The waves broke on the door-step; fishermen
   Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.
   Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,
When suddenly the forest glades were stirred
   With waving pinions, and a great sea bird
Flew forth, like Shelley’s spirit, to the sea!
 

1880.

ROMANCE

 
My Love dwelt in a Northern land.
   A grey tower in a forest green
Was hers, and far on either hand
   The long wash of the waves was seen,
And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,
   The woven forest boughs between!
 
 
And through the silver Northern night
   The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,
   Stole forth among the branches grey;
About the coming of the light,
   They fled like ghosts before the day!
 
 
I know not if the forest green
   Still girdles round that castle grey;
I know not if the boughs between
   The white deer vanish ere the day;
Above my Love the grass is green,
   My heart is colder than the clay!
 

BALLADE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY

 
I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves
   Among the shining salmon-flies;
A song for summer-time that grieves
   I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves.
   Between grey sea and golden sheaves,
Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies,
I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves
   Among the shining salmon-flies.
 

TO C. H. ARKCOLL

 
Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed
   By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;
In the isles of the East and the West
   That are sweet with the cinnamon trees
Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas;
   Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,
We are more than content, if you please,
   With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
 
 
Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best
   With the scent of the limes, when the bees
Hummed low ’round the doves in their nest,
   While the vintagers lay at their ease,
Had he sung in our northern degrees,
   He’d have sought a securer retreat,
He’d have dwelt, where the heart of us flees,
   With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
 
 
Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest
   And the daffodil’s fair on the leas,
And the soul of the Southron might rest,
   And be perfectly happy with these;
But we, that were nursed on the knees
   Of the hills of the North, we would fleet
Where our hearts might their longing appease
   With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
 

Envoy

 
Ah Constance, the land of our quest
   It is far from the sounds of the street,
Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest
   With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
 

VILLANELLE

(TO M. JOSEPH BOULMIER, AUTHOR OF “LES VILLANELLES.”)

 
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
      Hath the singer ceased to sing?
Hath the Master lost his lute?
 
 
Many a pipe and scrannel flute
      On the breeze their discords fling;
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
 
 
Sound of tumult and dispute,
      Noise of war the echoes bring;
Hath the Master lost his lute?
 
 
Once he sang of bud and shoot
      In the season of the Spring;
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
 
 
Fading leaf and falling fruit
      Say, “The year is on the wing,
Hath the Master lost his lute?”
 
 
Ere the axe lie at the root,
      Ere the winter come as king,
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
Hath the Master lost his lute?
 

TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS

 
Αίαῖ ταὶ μαλάχαι μέν ἐπὰν κατὰ κᾱπον ὄλωνται
ὕστερον άυ ζώοντι καὶ εἰς ἔτος ἄλλο φύοντι
άμμες δ’ οι μεγάλοι καὶ χαρτερί οι σοφοὶ ἄνδρες
ὁππότε πρᾱτα θάνωμες άνάχοοι ἔν χθονὶ χοίλα
‘εύδομες ἔυ μάλα μαχρὸν ἀπέμονα νήγρετον ‘ύπνον.
 
 
Alas, for us no second spring,
   Like mallows in the garden-bed,
For these the grave has lost his sting,
   Alas, for us no second spring,
   Who sleep without awakening,
And, dead, for ever more are dead,
   Alas, for us no second spring,
      Like mallows in the garden-bed!
 
 
Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave
   That boast themselves the sons of men!
Once they go down into the grave —
   Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave, —
   They perish and have none to save,
   They are sown, and are not raised again;
Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,
   That boast themselves the sons of men!
 

BALLADE OF CRICKET

TO T. W. LANG

 
The burden of hard hitting: slog away!
Here shalt thou make a “five” and there a “four,”
And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,
That thou art in for an uncommon score.
Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,
And thou to rival Thornton shalt aspire,
When lo, the Umpire gives thee “leg before,” —
“This is the end of every man’s desire!”
 
 
The burden of much bowling, when the stay
Of all thy team is “collared,” swift or slower,
When “bailers” break not in their wonted way,
And “yorkers” come not off as here-to-fore,
When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,
When all deliveries lose their former fire,
When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door, —
“This is the end of every man’s desire!”
 
 
The burden of long fielding, when the clay
Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower’s downpour,
And running still thou stumblest, or the ray
Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,
And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a “skyer,”
And lose a match the Fates cannot restore, —
“This is the end of every man’s desire!”
 

Envoy

 
Alas, yet liefer on Youth’s hither shore
Would I be some poor Player on scant hire,
Than King among the old, who play no more, —
“This is the end of every man’s desire!”
 

THE LAST MAYING

“It is told of the last Lovers which watched May-night in the forest, before men brought the tidings of the Gospel to this land, that they beheld no Fairies, nor Dwarfs, nor no such Thing, but the very Venus herself, who bade them ‘make such cheer as they might, for’ said she, ‘I shall live no more in these Woods, nor shall ye endure to see another May time.’” – Edmund Gorliot, “Of Phantasies and Omens,” p. 149. (1573.)

 
“Whence do ye come, with the dew on your hair?
From what far land are the boughs ye bear,
   The blossoms and buds upon breasts and tresses,
The light burned white in your faces fair?”
 
 
“In a falling fane have we built our house,
With the dying Gods we have held carouse,
   And our lips are wan from their wild caresses,
Our hands are filled with their holy boughs.
 
 
As we crossed the lawn in the dying day
No fairy led us to meet the May,
   But the very Goddess loved by lovers,
In mourning raiment of green and grey.
 
 
She was not decked as for glee and game,
She was not veiled with the veil of flame,
   The saffron veil of the Bride that covers
The face that is flushed with her joy and shame.
 
 
On the laden branches the scent and dew
Mingled and met, and as snow to strew
   The woodland rides and the fragrant grasses,
White flowers fell as the night wind blew.
 
 
Tears and kisses on lips and eyes
Mingled and met amid laughter and sighs
   For grief that abides, and joy that passes,
For pain that tarries and mirth that flies.
 
 
It chanced as the dawning grew to grey
Pale and sad on our homeward way,
   With weary lips, and palled with pleasure
The Goddess met us, farewell to say.
 
 
“Ye have made your choice, and the better part,
Ye chose” she said, “and the wiser art;
   In the wild May night drank all the measure,
The perfect pleasure of heart and heart.
 
 
“Ye shall walk no more with the May,” she said,
“Shall your love endure though the Gods be dead?
   Shall the flitting flocks, mine own, my chosen,
Sing as of old, and be happy and wed?
 
 
“Yea, they are glad as of old; but you,
Fair and fleet as the dawn or the dew,
   Abide no more, for the springs are frozen,
And fled the Gods that ye loved and knew.
 
 
Ye shall never know Summer again like this;
Ye shall play no more with the Fauns, I wis,
   No more in the nymphs’ and dryads’ playtime
Shall echo and answer kiss and kiss.
 
 
“Though the flowers in your golden hair be bright,
Your golden hair shall be waste and white
On faded brows ere another May time
   Bring the spring, but no more delight.”