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ROSA MYSTICA

REQUIESCAT

 
Tread lightly, she is near
   Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
   The daisies grow.
 
 
All her bright golden hair
   Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
   Fallen to dust.
 
 
Lily-like, white as snow,
   She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
   Sweetly she grew.
 
 
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
   Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
   She is at rest.
 
 
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
   Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
   Heap earth upon it.
 

Avignon.

SONNET ON APPROACHING ITALY

 
I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned,
   Italia, my Italia, at thy name:
   And when from out the mountain’s heart I came
And saw the land for which my life had yearned,
I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:
   And musing on the marvel of thy fame
   I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame
The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.
The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair,
   And in the orchards every twining spray
   Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:
But when I knew that far away at Rome
   In evil bonds a second Peter lay,
   I wept to see the land so very fair.
 

Turin.

SAN MINIATO

 
   See, I have climbed the mountain side
   Up to this holy house of God,
   Where once that Angel-Painter trod
Who saw the heavens opened wide,
 
 
   And throned upon the crescent moon
   The Virginal white Queen of Grace, —
   Mary! could I but see thy face
Death could not come at all too soon.
 
 
   O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
   Mother of Christ!  O mystic wife!
   My heart is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.
 
 
   O crowned by God with love and flame!
   O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
   O listen ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin and shame.
 

AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA

 
Was this His coming!  I had hoped to see
   A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
   Of some great God who in a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae:
Or a dread vision as when Semele
   Sickening for love and unappeased desire
   Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire
Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly:
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,
   And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand
   Before this supreme mystery of Love:
Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face,
   An angel with a lily in his hand,
 

Florence.

ITALIA

 
Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen
   Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride
   From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!
Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen
Because rich gold in every town is seen,
   And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride
   Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride
Beneath one flag of red and white and green.
O Fair and Strong!  O Strong and Fair in vain!
   Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town
   Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!
Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?
   Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,
   And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.
 

Venice.

SONNET

WRITTEN IN HOLY WEEK AT GENOA

 
I wandered through Scoglietto’s far retreat,
   The oranges on each o’erhanging spray
   Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet
   Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:
   And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay
Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.
Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,
   ‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,
   O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.’
Ah, God!  Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours
   Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,
   The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.
 

ROME UNVISITED

I

 
The corn has turned from grey to red,
   Since first my spirit wandered forth
   From the drear cities of the north,
And to Italia’s mountains fled.
 
 
And here I set my face towards home,
   For all my pilgrimage is done,
   Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun
Marshals the way to Holy Rome.
 
 
O Blessed Lady, who dost hold
   Upon the seven hills thy reign!
   O Mother without blot or stain,
Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!
 
 
O Roma, Roma, at thy feet
   I lay this barren gift of song!
   For, ah! the way is steep and long
That leads unto thy sacred street.
 

II

 
And yet what joy it were for me
   To turn my feet unto the south,
   And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole!
 
 
And wandering through the tangled pines
   That break the gold of Arno’s stream,
   To see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines
 
 
By many a vineyard-hidden home,
   Orchard and olive-garden grey,
   Till from the drear Campagna’s way
The seven hills bear up the dome!
 

III

 
A pilgrim from the northern seas —
   What joy for me to seek alone
   The wondrous temple and the throne
Of him who holds the awful keys!
 
 
When, bright with purple and with gold
   Come priest and holy cardinal,
   And borne above the heads of all
The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.
 
 
O joy to see before I die
   The only God-anointed king,
   And hear the silver trumpets ring
A triumph as he passes by!
 
 
Or at the brazen-pillared shrine
   Holds high the mystic sacrifice,
   And shows his God to human eyes
Beneath the veil of bread and wine.
 

IV

 
For lo, what changes time can bring!
   The cycles of revolving years
   May free my heart from all its fears,
And teach my lips a song to sing.
 
 
Before yon field of trembling gold
   Is garnered into dusty sheaves,
   Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves
Flutter as birds adown the wold,
 
 
I may have run the glorious race,
   And caught the torch while yet aflame,
   And called upon the holy name
Of Him who now doth hide His face.
 

Arona.

URBS SACRA ÆTERNA

 
Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been;
   In the first days thy sword republican
   Ruled the whole world for many an age’s span:
Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen,
Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen;
   And now upon thy walls the breezes fan
   (Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)
The hated flag of red and white and green.
When was thy glory! when in search for power
   Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun,
   And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod?
Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour,
   When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One,
   The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God.
 

Montre Mario.

SONNET

ON HEARING THE DIES IRÆ SUNG IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL

 
Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,
Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,
   Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than terrors of red flame and thundering.
The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:
   A bird at evening flying to its nest
   Tells me of One who had no place of rest:
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.
Come rather on some autumn afternoon,
   When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,
   And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,
Come when the splendid fulness of the moon
   Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,
   And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.
 

EASTER DAY

 
The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
   The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
   And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
   And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
   Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
   To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
   And sought in vain for any place of rest:
‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest.
   I, only I, must wander wearily,
   And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’
 

E TENEBRIS

 
Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand,
   For I am drowning in a stormier sea
   Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:
The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,
My heart is as some famine-murdered land
   Whence all good things have perished utterly,
   And well I know my soul in Hell must lie
If I this night before God’s throne should stand.
‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,
   Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name
   From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.’
Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,
   The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,
   The wounded hands, the weary human face.
 

VITA NUOVA

 
I stood by the unvintageable sea
   Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray;
   The long red fires of the dying day
Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;
And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:
   ‘Alas!’ I cried, ‘my life is full of pain,
   And who can garner fruit or golden grain
From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!’
My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw,
   Nathless I threw them as my final cast
   Into the sea, and waited for the end.
When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw
   From the black waters of my tortured past
   The argent splendour of white limbs ascend!
 

MADONNA MIA

 
A lily-girl, not made for this world’s pain,
   With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
   And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
   Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
   And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
   Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
   Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe,
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
   Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw
   The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.
 

THE NEW HELEN

 
Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy
   The sons of God fought in that great emprise?
      Why dost thou walk our common earth again?
Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,
      His purple galley and his Tyrian men
   And treacherous Aphrodite’s mocking eyes?
For surely it was thou, who, like a star
   Hung in the silver silence of the night,
   Didst lure the Old World’s chivalry and might
Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!
 
 
Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?
   In amorous Sidon was thy temple built
      Over the light and laughter of the sea
   Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt,
      Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry,
All through the waste and wearied hours of noon;
Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned,
   And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss
Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned
   From Calpé and the cliffs of Herakles!
 
 
No! thou art Helen, and none other one!
   It was for thee that young Sarpedôn died,
      And Memnôn’s manhood was untimely spent;
   It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried
With Thetis’ child that evil race to run,
      In the last year of thy beleaguerment;
Ay! even now the glory of thy fame
   Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel,
   Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well
Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.
 
 
Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land
   Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew,
      Where never mower rose at break of day
   But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew,
And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand
      Till summer’s red had changed to withered grey?
Didst thou lie there by some Lethæan stream
   Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,
   The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam
From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry?
 
 
Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill
   With one who is forgotten utterly,
      That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine;
   Hidden away that never mightst thou see
The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine
      To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel;
Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening,
   But only Love’s intolerable pain,
   Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,
Only the bitterness of child-bearing.
 
 
The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of Death
   Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me,
      While yet I know the summer of my days;
   For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath
To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise,
      So bowed am I before thy mystery;
So bowed and broken on Love’s terrible wheel,
   That I have lost all hope and heart to sing,
   Yet care I not what ruin time may bring
If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.
 
 
Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here,
   But, like that bird, the servant of the sun,
      Who flies before the north wind and the night,
   So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear,
Back to the tower of thine old delight,
      And the red lips of young Euphorion;
Nor shall I ever see thy face again,
   But in this poisonous garden-close must stay,
   Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain,
Till all my loveless life shall pass away.
 
 
O Helen!  Helen! Helen! yet a while,
   Yet for a little while, O, tarry here,
      Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee!
   For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile
Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear,
      Seeing I know no other god but thee:
No other god save him, before whose feet
   In nets of gold the tired planets move,
   The incarnate spirit of spiritual love
Who in thy body holds his joyous seat.
 
 
Thou wert not born as common women are!
   But, girt with silver splendour of the foam,
      Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise!
   And at thy coming some immortal star,
Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies,
      And waked the shepherds on thine island-home.
Thou shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep
   Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air;
   No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair,
Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.
 
 
Lily of love, pure and inviolate!
   Tower of ivory! red rose of fire!
      Thou hast come down our darkness to illume:
For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate,
   Wearied with waiting for the World’s Desire,
      Aimlessly wandered in the House of gloom,
Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne
   For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness,
Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine,
   And the white glory of thy loveliness.
 

THE BURDEN OF ITYS

 
This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
   Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
   Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves, – God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!
 
 
Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
   Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake
   A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,
His eyes half shut, – he is some mitred old
Bishop in partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.
 
 
The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
   Does well for Palæstrina, one would say
The mighty master’s hands were on the keys
   Of the Maria organ, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne
 
 
From his dark House out to the Balcony
   Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
   To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and West
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.
 
 
Is not yon lingering orange after-glow
   That stays to vex the moon more fair than all
Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago
   I knelt before some crimson Cardinal
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,
And now – those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.
 
 
The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous
   With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring
Through this cool evening than the odorous
   Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,
And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine.
 
 
Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass
   Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass
   I see that throbbing throat which once I heard
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.
 
 
Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves
   At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves
   Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.
 
 
And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,
   And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees
   That round and round the linden blossoms play;
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,
 
 
And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring
   While the last violet loiters by the well,
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing
   The song of Linus through a sunny dell
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.
 
 
And sweet with young Lycoris to recline
   In some Illyrian valley far away,
Where canopied on herbs amaracine
   We too might waste the summer-trancèd day
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,
While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.
 
 
But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot
   Of some long-hidden God should ever tread
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute
   Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head
By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.
 
 
Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,
   Though what thou sing’st be thine own requiem!
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler
   Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield
 
 
Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose
   Which all day long in vales Æolian
A lad might seek in vain for over-grows
   Our hedges like a wanton courtesan
Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too
Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue
 
 
Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs
   For swallows going south, would never spread
Their azure tents between the Attic vines;
   Even that little weed of ragged red,
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy
 
 
Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames
   Which to awake were sweeter ravishment
Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems
   Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant
For Cytheræa’s brows are hidden here
Unknown to Cytheræa, and by yonder pasturing steer
 
 
There is a tiny yellow daffodil,
   The butterfly can see it from afar,
Although one summer evening’s dew could fill
   Its little cup twice over ere the star
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold
And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold
 
 
As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae
   Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss
The trembling petals, or young Mercury
   Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis
Had with one feather of his pinions
Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns
 
 
Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,
   Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry, —
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre
   Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me
It seems to bring diviner memories
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,
 
 
Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where
   On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,
The tangle of the forest in his hair,
   The silence of the woodland in his eyes,
Wooing that drifting imagery which is
No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis
 
 
Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,
   Fed by two fires and unsatisfied
Through their excess, each passion being loth
   For love’s own sake to leave the other’s side
Yet killing love by staying; memories
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,
 
 
Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf
   At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew
Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf
   And called false Theseus back again nor knew
That Dionysos on an amber pard
Was close behind her; memories of what Mæonia’s bard
 
 
With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,
   Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy
   Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s plume,
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;
 
 
Of wingèd Perseus with his flawless sword
   Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,
And all those tales imperishably stored
   In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain
Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,
 
 
For well I know they are not dead at all,
   The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call
   Will wake and think ’t is very Thessaly,
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.
 
 
If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird
   Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard
   The horn of Atalanta faintly blown
Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering
Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring, —
 
 
Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate
   That pleadest for the moon against the day!
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate
   On that sweet questing, when Proserpina
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment, —
 
 
Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!
   If ever thou didst soothe with melody
One of that little clan, that brotherhood
   Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany
More than the perfect sun of Raphael
And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.
 
 
Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,
   Let elemental things take form again,
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among
   The simple garths and open crofts, as when
The son of Leto bare the willow rod,
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.
 
 
Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here
   Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear
   With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,
While at his side the wanton Bassarid
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!
 
 
Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,
   And steal the moonèd wings of Ashtaroth,
Upon whose icy chariot we could win
   Cithæron in an hour ere the froth
Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun
Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn
 
 
Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,
   And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,
Some Mænad girl with vine-leaves on her breast
   Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans
So softly that the little nested thrush
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush
 
 
Down the green valley where the fallen dew
   Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew
   Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,
And where their hornèd master sits in state
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!
 
 
Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face
   Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come,
The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase
   Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,
After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride.
 
 
Sing on! and I the dying boy will see
   Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me
   The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!
 
 
Cry out aloud on Itys! memory
   That foster-brother of remorse and pain
Drops poison in mine ear, – O to be free,
   To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again
Into the white-plumed battle of the waves
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!
 
 
O for Medea with her poppied spell!
   O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel
   Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,
 
 
Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased
   From lily to lily on the level mead,
Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste
   The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,
Ere the black steeds had harried her away
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.
 
 
O for one midnight and as paramour
   The Venus of the little Melian farm!
O that some antique statue for one hour
   Might wake to passion, and that I could charm
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair!
 
 
Sing on! sing on!  I would be drunk with life,
   Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,
I would forget the wearying wasted strife,
   The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,
The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!
 
 
Sing on! sing on!  O feathered Niobe,
   Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal
From joy its sweetest music, not as we
   Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep.
 
 
Sing louder yet, why must I still behold
   The wan white face of that deserted Christ,
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,
   Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,
And now in mute and marble misery
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me?
 
 
O Memory cast down thy wreathèd shell!
   Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!
O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell
   Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!
Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!
 
 
Cease, cease, or if ’t is anguish to be dumb
   Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become
   This English woodland than thy keen despair,
Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.
 
 
A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,
   Endymion would have passed across the mead
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard
   Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.
 
 
A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,
   The silver daughter of the silver sea
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed
   Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope
Had thrust aside the branches of her oak
To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.
 
 
A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss
   Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis
   Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile
 
 
Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,
   To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned bliss,
Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare
   High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.
 
 
Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!
   O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill
   Come not with such despondent answering!
No more thou wingèd Marsyas complain,
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!
 
 
It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,
   No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,
   And from the copse left desolate and bare
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody
 
 
So sad, that one might think a human heart
   Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
   Which is most nigh to tears and memory;
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,
 
 
Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,
   No woven web of bloody heraldries,
But mossy dells for roving comrades made,
   Warm valleys where the tired student lies
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.
 
 
The harmless rabbit gambols with its young
   Across the trampled towing-path, where late
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng
   Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds
 
 
Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out
   Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout
   Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.
 
 
The heron passes homeward to the mere,
   The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,
Gold world by world the silent stars appear,
   And like a blossom blown before the breeze
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.
 
 
She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,
   She knows Endymion is not far away;
’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed
   Which has no message of its own to play,
So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.
 
 
Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill
   About the sombre woodland seems to cling
Dying in music, else the air is still,
   So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell
Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell.
 
 
And far away across the lengthening wold,
   Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,
Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold
   Marks the long High Street of the little town,
And warns me to return; I must not wait,
Hark! ’t is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.