Kitabı oku: «Poems», sayfa 8

SWEET CHARMER.{1}

("L'aube naît et ta porte est close.")

{XXIII., February, 18 – .}

 
     Though heaven's gate of light uncloses,
       Thou stirr'st not – thou'rt laid to rest,
     Waking are thy sister roses,
       One only dreamest on thy breast.
             Hear me, sweet dreamer!
               Tell me all thy fears,
             Trembling in song,
               But to break in tears.
 
 
     Lo! to greet thee, spirits pressing,
       Soft music brings the gentle dove,
     And fair light falleth like a blessing,
       While my poor heart can bring thee only love.
     Worship thee, angels love thee, sweet woman?
       Yes; for that love perfects my soul.
     None the less of heaven that my heart is human,
       Blent in one exquisite, harmonious whole.
 

H.B. FARNIE.

{Footnote 1: Set to music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.}

MORE STRONG THAN TIME

("Puisque j'ai mis ma lèvre à ta coupe.")

{XXV., Jan. 1, 1835.}

 
     Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet,
       Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid,
     Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it,
       And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade;
 
 
     Since it was given to me to hear one happy while,
       The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries,
     Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile,
       Your lips upon my lips, and your gaze upon my eyes;
 
 
     Since I have known upon my forehead glance and gleam,
       A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always,
     Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime's stream,
        Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days;
 
 
     I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours,
       Pass – pass upon your way, for I grow never old.
     Flee to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers,
       One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold.
 
 
     Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill
       The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet.
     My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill,
       My soul more love than you can make my love forget.
 

A. LANG.

ROSES AND BUTTERFLIES

("Roses et Papillons.")

{XXVII., Dec. 7, 1834.}

 
     The grave receives us all:
       Ye butterflies and roses gay and sweet
     Why do ye linger, say?
       Will ye not dwell together as is meet?
     Somewhere high in the air
       Would thy wing seek a home 'mid sunny skies,
     In mead or mossy dell —
       If there thy odors longest, sweetest rise.
 
 
     Have where ye will your dwelling,
       Or breath or tint whose praise we sing;
     Butterfly shining bright,
       Full-blown or bursting rosebud, flow'r or wing.
     Dwell together ye fair,
       'Tis a boon to the loveliest given;
     Perchance ye then may choose your home
       On the earth or in heaven.
 

W.C. WESTBROOK

A SIMILE.

("Soyez comme l'oiseau.")

{XXXIII. vi.}

 
     Thou art like the bird
       That alights and sings
     Though the frail spray bends —
       For he knows he has wings.
 

FANNY KEMBLE (BUTLER)

THE POET TO HIS WIFE

("À toi, toujours à toi.")

{XXXIX., 1823}

 
         To thee, all time to thee,
         My lyre a voice shall be!
         Above all earthly fashion,
           Above mere mundane rage,
         Your mind made it my passion
           To write for noblest stage.
 
 
     Whoe'er you be, send blessings to her – she
     Was sister of my soul immortal, free!
     My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource,
     When green hoped not to gray to run its course;
     She was enthronèd Virtue under heaven's dome,
     My idol in the shrine of curtained home.
 

LES VOIX INTÉRIEURES. – 1840.
THE BLINDED BOURBONS

("Qui leur eût dit l'austère destineé?")

{II. v., November, 1836.}

 
     Who then, to them{1} had told the Future's story?
     Or said that France, low bowed before their glory,
         One day would mindful be
     Of them and of their mournful fate no more,
     Than of the wrecks its waters have swept o'er
         The unremembering sea?
 
 
     That their old Tuileries should see the fall
     Of blazons from its high heraldic hall,
         Dismantled, crumbling, prone;{2}
     Or that, o'er yon dark Louvre's architrave{3}
     A Corsican, as yet unborn, should grave
         An eagle, then unknown?
 
 
     That gay St. Cloud another lord awaited,
     Or that in scenes Le Nôtre's art created
         For princely sport and ease,
     Crimean steeds, trampling the velvet glade,
     Should browse the bark beneath the stately shade
         Of the great Louis' trees?
 

Fraser's Magazine.

{Footnote 1: The young princes, afterwards Louis XVIII. and Charles X.}

{Footnote 2: The Tuileries, several times stormed by mobs, was so

irreparably injured by the Communists that, in 1882, the Paris Town

Council decided that the ruins should be cleared away.}

{Footnote 3: After the Eagle and the Bee superseded the Lily-flowers,

the Third Napoleon's initial "N" flourished for two decades, but has

been excised or plastered over, the words "National Property" or

"Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" being cut in the stone profusely.}

TO ALBERT DÜRER

("Dans les vieilles forêts.")

{X., April 20, 1837.}

 
     Through ancient forests – where like flowing tide
     The rising sap shoots vigor far and wide,
     Mounting the column of the alder dark
     And silv'ring o'er the birch's shining bark —
     Hast thou not often, Albert Dürer, strayed
     Pond'ring, awe-stricken – through the half-lit glade,
     Pallid and trembling – glancing not behind
     From mystic fear that did thy senses bind,
     Yet made thee hasten with unsteady pace?
     Oh, Master grave! whose musings lone we trace
     Throughout thy works we look on reverently.
     Amidst the gloomy umbrage thy mind's eye
     Saw clearly, 'mong the shadows soft yet deep,
     The web-toed faun, and Pan the green-eyed peep,
     Who deck'd with flowers the cave where thou might'st rest,
     Leaf-laden dryads, too, in verdure drest.
     A strange weird world such forest was to thee,
     Where mingled truth and dreams in mystery;
     There leaned old ruminating pines, and there
     The giant elms, whose boughs deformed and bare
     A hundred rough and crooked elbows made;
     And in this sombre group the wind had swayed,
     Nor life – nor death – but life in death seemed found.
     The cresses drink – the water flows – and round
     Upon the slopes the mountain rowans meet,
     And 'neath the brushwood plant their gnarled feet,
     Intwining slowly where the creepers twine.
     There, too, the lakes as mirrors brightly shine,
     And show the swan-necked flowers, each line by line.
     Chimeras roused take stranger shapes for thee,
     The glittering scales of mailèd throat we see,
     And claws tight pressed on huge old knotted tree;
     While from a cavern dim the bright eyes glare.
     Oh, vegetation! Spirit! Do we dare
     Question of matter, and of forces found
     'Neath a rude skin-in living verdure bound.
     Oh, Master – I, like thee, have wandered oft
     Where mighty trees made arches high aloft,
     But ever with a consciousness of strife,
     A surging struggle of the inner life.
     Ever the trembling of the grass I say,
     And the boughs rocking as the breezes play,
     Have stirred deep thoughts in a bewild'ring way.
     Oh, God! alone Great Witness of all deeds,
     Of thoughts and acts, and all our human needs,
     God only knows how often in such scenes
     Of savage beauty under leafy screens,
     I've felt the mighty oaks had spirit dower —
     Like me knew mirth and sorrow – sentient power,
     And whisp'ring each to each in twilight dim,
     Had hearts that beat – and owned a soul from Him!
 

MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND

TO HIS MUSE

("Puisqu'ici-bas tout âme.")

{XL, May 19, 1836.}

 
     Since everything below,
       Doth, in this mortal state,
     Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow
       Communicate;
 
 
     Since all that lives and moves
       Upon the earth, bestows
     On what it seeks and what it loves
       Its thorn or rose;
 
 
     Since April to the trees
       Gives a bewitching sound,
     And sombre night to grief gives ease,
       And peace profound;
 
 
     Since day-spring on the flower
       A fresh'ning drop confers,
     And the fresh air on branch and bower
       Its choristers;
 
 
     Since the dark wave bestows
       A soft caress, imprest
     On the green bank to which it goes
       Seeking its rest;
 
 
     I give thee at this hour,
       Thus fondly bent o'er thee,
     The best of all the things in dow'r
       That in me be.
 
 
     Receive, – poor gift, 'tis true,
       Which grief, not joy, endears, —
     My thoughts, that like a shower of dew,
       Reach thee in tears.
 
 
     My vows untold receive,
       All pure before thee laid;
     Receive of all the days I live
       The light or shade!
 
 
     My hours with rapture fill'd,
       Which no suspicion wrongs;
     And all the blandishments distill'd
       From all my songs.
 
 
     My spirit, whose essay
       Flies fearless, wild, and free,
     And hath, and seeks, to guide its way
       No star but thee.
 
 
     No pensive, dreamy Muse,
       Who, though all else should smile,
     Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose,
       To weep the while.
 
 
     Oh, sweetest mine! this gift
       Receive; – 'tis throe alone; —
     My heart, of which there's nothing left
       When Love is gone!
 

Fraser's Magazine.

THE COW

("Devant la blanche ferme.")

{XV., May, 1837.}

 
     Before the farm where, o'er the porch, festoon
     Wild creepers red, and gaffer sits at noon,
     Whilst strutting fowl display their varied crests,
     And the old watchdog slumberously rests,
     They half-attentive to the clarion of their king,
     Resplendent in the sunshine op'ning wing —
     There stood a cow, with neck-bell jingling light,
     Superb, enormous, dappled red and white —
     Soft, gentle, patient as a hind unto its young,
     Letting the children swarm until they hung
     Around her, under – rustics with their teeth
     Whiter than marble their ripe lips beneath,
     And bushy hair fresh and more brown
     Than mossy walls at old gates of a town,
     Calling to one another with loud cries
     For younger imps to be in at the prize;
     Stealing without concern but tremulous with fear
     They glance around lest Doll the maid appear; —
     Their jolly lips – that haply cause some pain,
     And all those busy fingers, pressing now and 'gain,
     The teeming udders whose small, thousand pores
     Gush out the nectar 'mid their laughing roars,
     While she, good mother, gives and gives in heaps,
     And never moves. Anon there creeps
     A vague soft shiver o'er the hide unmarred,
     As sharp they pull, she seems of stone most hard.
     Dreamy of large eye, seeks she no release,
     And shrinks not while there's one still to appease.
       Thus Nature – refuge 'gainst the slings of fate!
     Mother of all, indulgent as she's great!
     Lets us, the hungered of each age and rank,
     Shadow and milk seek in the eternal flank;
     Mystic and carnal, foolish, wise, repair,
     The souls retiring and those that dare,
     Sages with halos, poets laurel-crowned,
     All creep beneath or cluster close around,
     And with unending greed and joyous cries,
     From sources full, draw need's supplies,
     Quench hearty thirst, obtain what must eftsoon
     Form blood and mind, in freest boon,
     Respire at length thy sacred flaming light,
     From all that greets our ears, touch, scent or sight —
     Brown leaves, blue mountains, yellow gleams, green sod —
     Thou undistracted still dost dream of God.
 

TORU DUTT.

MOTHERS

("Regardez: les enfants.")

{XX., June, 1884.}

 
     See all the children gathered there,
     Their mother near; so young, so fair,
     An eider sister she might be,
     And yet she hears, amid their games,
     The shaking of their unknown names
       In the dark urn of destiny.
 
 
     She wakes their smiles, she soothes their cares,
     On that pure heart so like to theirs,
       Her spirit with such life is rife
     That in its golden rays we see,
     Touched into graceful poesy,
       The dull cold commonplace of life.
 
 
     Still following, watching, whether burn
     The Christmas log in winter stern,
       While merry plays go round;
     Or streamlets laugh to breeze of May
     That shakes the leaf to break away —
       A shadow falling to the ground.
 
 
     If some poor man with hungry eyes
     Her baby's coral bauble spies,
       She marks his look with famine wild,
     For Christ's dear sake she makes with joy
     An alms-gift of the silver toy —
       A smiling angel of the child.
 

Dublin University Magazine

TO SOME BIRDS FLOWN AWAY

("Enfants! Oh! revenez!")

{XXII, April, 1837}

 
     Children, come back – come back, I say —
     You whom my folly chased away
     A moment since, from this my room,
     With bristling wrath and words of doom!
     What had you done, you bandits small,
     With lips as red as roses all?
     What crime? – what wild and hapless deed?
       What porcelain vase by you was split
     To thousand pieces? Did you need
       For pastime, as you handled it,
     Some Gothic missal to enrich
       With your designs fantastical?
       Or did your tearing fingers fall
     On some old picture? Which, oh, which
     Your dreadful fault? Not one of these;
     Only when left yourselves to please
     This morning but a moment here
       'Mid papers tinted by my mind
     You took some embryo verses near —
       Half formed, but fully well designed
     To open out. Your hearts desire
     Was but to throw them on the fire,
     Then watch the tinder, for the sight
     Of shining sparks that twinkle bright
     As little boats that sail at night,
     Or like the window lights that spring
     From out the dark at evening.
 
 
     'Twas all, and you were well content.
     Fine loss was this for anger's vent —
     A strophe ill made midst your play,
     Sweet sound that chased the words away
     In stormy flight. An ode quite new,
     With rhymes inflated – stanzas, too,
     That panted, moving lazily,
       And heavy Alexandrine lines
     That seemed to jostle bodily,
       Like children full of play designs
     That spring at once from schoolroom's form.
     Instead of all this angry storm,
     Another might have thanked you well
     For saving prey from that grim cell,
     That hollowed den 'neath journals great,
       Where editors who poets flout
       With their demoniac laughter shout.
     And I have scolded you! What fate
     For charming dwarfs who never meant
       To anger Hercules! And I
     Have frightened you! – My chair I sent
       Back to the wall, and then let fly
     A shower of words the envious use —
     "Get out," I said, with hard abuse,
     "Leave me alone – alone I say."
     Poor man alone! Ah, well-a-day,
     What fine result – what triumph rare!
       As one turns from the coffin'd dead
     So left you me: – I could but stare
       Upon the door through which you fled —
     I proud and grave – but punished quite.
     And what care you for this my plight! —
     You have recovered liberty,
     Fresh air and lovely scenery,
     The spacious park and wished-for grass;
       The running stream, where you can throw
     A blade to watch what comes to pass;
       Blue sky, and all the spring can show;
     Nature, serenely fair to see;
     The book of birds and spirits free,
     God's poem, worth much more than mine,
     Where flowers for perfect stanzas shine —
     Flowers that a child may pluck in play,
     No harsh voice frightening it away.
     And I'm alone – all pleasure o'er —
       Alone with pedant called "Ennui,"
     For since the morning at my door
       Ennui has waited patiently.
     That docto-r-London born, you mark,
     One Sunday in December dark,
     Poor little ones – he loved you not,
     And waited till the chance he got
     To enter as you passed away,
       And in the very corner where
     You played with frolic laughter gay,
       He sighs and yawns with weary air.
 
 
     What can I do? Shall I read books,
     Or write more verse – or turn fond looks
     Upon enamels blue, sea-green,
     And white – on insects rare as seen
     Upon my Dresden china ware?
     Or shall I touch the globe, and care
     To make the heavens turn upon
     Its axis? No, not one – not one
     Of all these things care I to do;
     All wearies me – I think of you.
     In truth with you my sunshine fled,
     And gayety with your light tread —
     Glad noise that set me dreaming still.
     'Twas my delight to watch your will,
     And mark you point with finger-tips
       To help your spelling out a word;
     To see the pearls between your lips
       When I your joyous laughter heard;
     Your honest brows that looked so true,
       And said "Oh, yes!" to each intent;
     Your great bright eyes, that loved to view
       With admiration innocent
     My fine old Sèvres; the eager thought
     That every kind of knowledge sought;
     The elbow push with "Come and see!"
 
 
     Oh, certes! spirits, sylphs, there be,
     And fays the wind blows often here;
     The gnomes that squat the ceiling near,
     In corners made by old books dim;
     The long-backed dwarfs, those goblins grim
     That seem at home 'mong vases rare,
     And chat to them with friendly air —
     Oh, how the joyous demon throng
     Must all have laughed with laughter long
     To see you on my rough drafts fall,
     My bald hexameters, and all
     The mournful, miserable band,
     And drag them with relentless hand
     From out their box, with true delight
     To set them each and all a-light,
     And then with clapping hands to lean
     Above the stove and watch the scene,
     How to the mass deformed there came
     A soul that showed itself in flame!
 
 
     Bright tricksy children – oh, I pray
     Come back and sing and dance away,
     And chatter too – sometimes you may,
     A giddy group, a big book seize —
     Or sometimes, if it so you please,
     With nimble step you'll run to me
       And push the arm that holds the pen,
     Till on my finished verse will be
       A stroke that's like a steeple when
     Seen suddenly upon a plain.
     My soul longs for your breath again
     To warm it. Oh, return – come here
     With laugh and babble – and no fear
       When with your shadow you obscure
       The book I read, for I am sure,
     Oh, madcaps terrible and dear,
     That you were right and I was wrong.
     But who has ne'er with scolding tongue
     Blamed out of season. Pardon me!
     You must forgive – for sad are we.
 
 
     The young should not be hard and cold
     And unforgiving to the old.
     Children each morn your souls ope out
       Like windows to the shining day,
     Oh, miracle that comes about,
       The miracle that children gay
     Have happiness and goodness too,
     Caressed by destiny are you,
       Charming you are, if you but play.
     But we with living overwrought,
     And full of grave and sombre thought,
     Are snappish oft: dear little men,
     We have ill-tempered days, and then,
     Are quite unjust and full of care;
     It rained this morning and the air
     Was chill; but clouds that dimm'd the sky
     Have passed. Things spited me, and why?
     But now my heart repents. Behold
     What 'twas that made me cross, and scold!
     All by-and-by you'll understand,
     When brows are mark'd by Time's stern hand;
     Then you will comprehend, be sure,
     When older – that's to say, less pure.
 
 
     The fault I freely own was mine.
     But oh, for pardon now I pine!
     Enough my punishment to meet,
     You must forgive, I do entreat
     With clasped hands praying – oh, come back,
     Make peace, and you shall nothing lack.
     See now my pencils – paper – here,
     And pointless compasses, and dear
     Old lacquer-work; and stoneware clear
     Through glass protecting; all man's toys
     So coveted by girls and boys.
     Great China monsters – bodies much
     Like cucumbers – you all shall touch.
     I yield up all! my picture rare
       Found beneath antique rubbish heap,
     My great and tapestried oak chair
       I will from you no longer keep.
     You shall about my table climb,
       And dance, or drag, without a cry
     From me as if it were a crime.
       Even I'll look on patiently
     If you your jagged toys all throw
     Upon my carved bench, till it show
     The wood is torn; and freely too,
     I'll leave in your own hands to view,
     My pictured Bible – oft desired —
     But which to touch your fear inspired —
     With God in emperor's robes attired.
 
 
     Then if to see my verses burn,
     Should seem to you a pleasant turn,
     Take them to freely tear away
     Or burn. But, oh! not so I'd say,
     If this were Méry's room to-day.
     That noble poet! Happy town,
     Marseilles the Greek, that him doth own!
     Daughter of Homer, fair to see,
     Of Virgil's son the mother she.
     To you I'd say, Hold, children all,
     Let but your eyes on his work fall;
     These papers are the sacred nest
     In which his crooning fancies rest;
     To-morrow winged to Heaven they'll soar,
       For new-born verse imprisoned still
     In manuscript may suffer sore
       At your small hands and childish will,
     Without a thought of bad intent,
     Of cruelty quite innocent.
     You wound their feet, and bruise their wings,
     And make them suffer those ill things
     That children's play to young birds brings.
 
 
     But mine! no matter what you do,
     My poetry is all in you;
     You are my inspiration bright
     That gives my verse its purest light.
     Children whose life is made of hope,
     Whose joy, within its mystic scope,
     Owes all to ignorance of ill,
     You have not suffered, and you still
     Know not what gloomy thoughts weigh down
     The poet-writer weary grown.
     What warmth is shed by your sweet smile!
     How much he needs to gaze awhile
     Upon your shining placid brow,
     When his own brow its ache doth know;
     With what delight he loves to hear
     Your frolic play 'neath tree that's near,
     Your joyous voices mixing well
     With his own song's all-mournful swell!
     Come back then, children! come to me,
     If you wish not that I should be
     As lonely now that you're afar
     As fisherman of Etrétat,
     Who listless on his elbow leans
     Through all the weary winter scenes,
     As tired of thought – as on Time flies —
     And watching only rainy skies!
 

MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.