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SECTION VI 

NINETEENTH CENTURY POETS 



GENERAL EDITOR 

RICHARD BURTON, Ph.D. 

PROFESSORIAL LECTURER IN ENGLISH UTSRATURE 
UNIVERSITY or CHICAGO 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

Frsm ■ pbMagnpti by EUiaii Sc Fiy. 



• SELECTED POEMS 



BY 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 






EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 



BY 

WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE, LL.D. 

ASSOCIATE EDITOR OF "THE DIAL" 



BOSTON, U.S.A., AND LONDON 

D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS 

1905 



COPYRIGHT, 1905, Bl 






• I 



TO 

£. G. R. 



753 su> 



Contents 

Introduction xi 

Prefatory Note xliii 

ODES 

Athens : An Ode i 

The Armada 22 

Ode on the Proclamation of the French Republic 50 

POEMS OF PAGANISM AND PANTHEISM 

I V^ TTie Garden of Proserpine «2=r^ 67 

.)Ci/Hymn to Proserpine r7^^ . . .--♦'. . . 7i*>. 

yfThe Last Oracle 79 

>^Hertha ^. . . 87 • * 

Hymn of Man 97 

SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE 

Prelude 112 • 

Siena 119 

Perinde ac Cadaver 131 

The Pilgrims 136 . 

Super Flumina Babylonis 141 

Mater Dolorosa 148 

I ^^ Mater Triumphalis ^ - • >53 



367260 



LYRICS OF NATURE AND LIFE 
y the North Sea . . l6i 



inCalydoD . r\ . . iog - 

as .' i i 3 

«'9 



.... 230 

. . . .+. . . 2J2 
*3 + 

I of Heaven . . . -235 

^6 

«37 

239 

INNETS 



1+4 
■ *47 
. 248 



noflhejM 



Contnttt ix 

Qamot 252 

Vos Deos Laudamus 253 

In San Lorenzo 254 

The Festival of Beatrice 256 

Christopher Marlowe . . , 257 

^W^liam Shakespeare 258 

J^n Webster 258 

^or Cordium 259 

Dickens ' . 260. 

. On the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and George 

/ Eliot 261 

"I ^ On the Death of Robert Browning .... 262 

. PERSONAL AND MEMORIAL. POEMS 

^Ti^assius 263 

Adieux a Marie Stuart 285 

On a Country Road. 290 

In the Bay 292 

-i ^^In Memory of Walter Savage Landor*22:^£==--*^'305 ^ 

To Victor Hugo 307 

W Ave atque Vale .316- - 

lines on the Monument of Giuseppe Mazzini . 3 26 

The Death of Richard Wagner 329 

Dedication (Poems and Ballads, I.) 3^1 

Dedication ( Poems and Ballads, 11. ) , . . .335 

METRICAL EXPERIMENTS, IMITATIONS, 

AND PARODIES 

j/ Hendecasyllabics . . . .... . . 337 

kp^f "Sapphics, -Y. . . 338 



I 



X Contmttf 

Choriambics 342 

Grand Chorus of Birds from Aristophanes . . 345 

^ Jacobite's Farewell 348 

A Jacobite's Exile 349 

^^VThe Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell . . .353 

Sonnet for a Rcture 355 

I ^^-''^ephilidia 356 

Chronological List OP Writings . • • .359 

Bibliographical Note 361 

Notes 363 



I 



9lfltttiuctten 

Algernon Chahles Swinburne is the one great 
poet left to the English race, if not to the world, tt 
the close of the nineteenth century. When his first 
works appeared, in the early sixties, the great poets of 
the pre-Vktorian agp. Landor^ onc excepted, had long 
smce passed away. He had for contemporaries Tenny- 
son, Browning, and Arnold, whose fame was securely 
established, and Rossetd and Morris, the early fruits of 
whose genius were known to a few, but whose wider 
reputadon was still to be won. Particularly associated 
with the latter two poets in sympathy and aim, Swin- , 
bume was the first of the trio to attract the attention of* 
the public at lai^, and his poetic achievement was 
destined to become more considerable and important 
than that of either of these fellow workers. A quarter . 
of a century ago, he was one of six living English poets 
of the first rank; between 1882 and 1896 his five '^ 
great contemporaries died, leaving him in the position 
of solitary preeminence which he has ever since oc- 
cupied. It is not easy to find anywhere in the history 
of modern letters a parallel to this extraordinary state 
of afiairs ; literature the world over appears to be fast 
lapsing into prose, and the torch of high and serious 
poetry seems in danger of becoming quenched for lack 
of a bearer. 



xii Jntrotmction 



1 



Swinburn e wi^ born in London^ April ,5^ }?S7' 
He was the oldest cnil^^oT^HmiraPCharles Henry i 

Swinburne and Lady Jane Henrietta^ daughter of the " 

third Earl of Ashburnham. He is descended fi-om a 
very ancient Northumbrian family which dates, says 
Burke, ^^ from so remote a period that the Swinburnes 
of Swinburne Castle have been esteemed feudal lords." 
The members of the family now living are the direct 
descendants of Sir William de Swinburne, who lived 
in the time of Henry III. The present head of the 
family is Sir John Edward Swinburne, sixth baronet, 
t first cousin of the poet. The Ashburnham lineage is 
also long and distinguished, the family having been, 
according to Nisbet, '* of good account before the Con- 
quest." The poet was educated at Eton and Balliol, 
but left Oxford without taking a degree. His four years 
at the University (185 6- 18 60) were notable for his 
first printed writings, being five contributions to Under- 
graduate Papers^ for his academic distincdon in French, 
Italian, and the classics, and for the beginnings of his 
lifelong friendship with Morris, Rossetd, and Bume- 
Jones. The year in which he left Oxford marked the 
publication of Tke Queen Mother and Rosamond, his 
first book. The following year, a few weeks spent 
with his parents in Italy were made for ever memorable 
to him by his meeting with the venerable Walter Sav- 
age Landor. Returning to England, he devoted him- 
self to literary work, in Jj86^ won th e appl auscj?£ the 
judicious vnih.'b^f^Alalanta m .Cal^n and Chasteldrd, 
and, the year following (1866), took the public by 
storm with the famous first volume of his Poems and 



M 1 : 1 1 1 i « « 



••• 



Ballads, There had been no such senstdon hi Eng- 
lish poetry since the appearance of the first two cantoe 
of Childe Harold as was occasioned by this volume* 
and there has been no such sensation since. And the 
^e thus suddenly achieved was destined to prove no 
temporary matter, but has gone on broadening and 
deepening with the years ; a new century has begun 
its course, and its greatest English name is that of the 
poet who first compelled widespread attention nearly 
forty years ago. During these years, Swinburne's life 
has been distincdy that of t man of letters, and its 
events have been his books. A glance at the list of the 
viritings which bear his name will show with what 
fidthfiil industry he has pursued his calling. Most of 
the years have been spent in or near London ; since 
1879 his home has been at Putney Hill, on the out- 
skirts of the metropolis, where he lives with his dearest 
^end, Theodore Watts-Duntpn, himself a poet of no 
mean accomplishment, besides being the most profound 
cridc of English poetry now living. An ideal compan- 
ionship, combined widi the pleasures of the simple life, 
reading, walking, swinmiing, the love of children and 
the converse of firiends, — such have been the circum- 
stances of the poet for the past quarter of a century, 
such the conditions under which he has produced book 
after book of imperishably beautiful poetry. 

Before attempting a detailed characterization of that 
poetry, it seems desirable to clear the ground by say- 
ing a few words about Swinburne's prose, which is 
^ so noteworthy that, even were there no verse to his 
' account, he would still be one of the most important 



xiv 3|ntroimction 



writers of our time. His volumes (of prose are almost 
as numerous as his volumes of verse, and, when we 
reckon with them the uncollected matter to be found 
in pamphlets, periodicals, and encyclopaedias, the prose 
will be found to exceed the verse in quantity. With 
respect to quality, of course, the case is different. 
Swinburne, Uke Carlyle, has shown himself perfectly 
capable, at need, of writing simple and forcible English 
prose, but, also like Carlyle, he has deliberately pre- 
/ ferred to cultivate a style of tortuous complexity and 
L labyrinthine structure, a style overloaded with epithets 
and packed with recondite allusions, a style that is 
anything but a model of what prose ought to be. Yet 
at its best this style achieves an impressiveness and an 
eloquence that are very remarkable ; it imparts real 
ideas and becomes the vehicle of a penetrative criticism 
and a line moral fervor. 

Swinburne's prose is, of course, so largely con- 
cerned with the criticism of literature that its opportun- 
ities are restricted, but this does not prevent it fi-om 
throwing side-lights upon many subjects of other than 
literary interest, or from stimulating the whole intel- 
lectual life rather than that section thereof which is 
concerned with questions of taste and the fitness of lit- 
erary forms to subserve their respective ends. Aside 
from a few polemical publications of ephemeral inter- 
est, Swinburne's prose work is comprised in three 
collections of miscellaneous essays, and in the special 
volumes upon William Blake, Charlotte Bronte, Hugo, 
Chapman, Jonson, and Shakespeare. There is also a 
considerable quantity of uncollected matter, of whicli 



M 1 : 1 1 1 i « « 



XV 

the most valuable part 18 a series of essays dealing with 
the more important of the Elizabethan dramatists. As 
a critic of literature Swinburne is entitled to a high 
rank. His involved manner of saying things, and thc"^^ 
warmth of the laudation which he sometimes bestows, 
sre but incidental defects, after all, and should not be 
albwed to obscure the very real and solid merit of his 
analysis. There are few books about Shakespeare as ' 
hdpRil and stimulating as Swinburne's Study of the 
greatest of poets. It will do for the student predsel^^ 
what a whole library of scientific criticism will not do; 
it will save him from mechanical methods of judgment^ 
and all the deadening influences of pedantry; it will 
impart to him scnnething of its own generous enthusi- 
asm and genial insight. This book and its companion 
stodies upon the Elizabethan writers have done much 
for the proper appreciation of the poetry of our great 
dramatic period, and no one, perhaps, has discussed 

^at poetry with warmer sympathy and deeper insight. 

(Extravagance in both praise and censure is oflen charged 
against him, and doubtless vrith justice. But on the 
former count of the indictment we may at least urge 
that what he calls ** the noble pleasure of praising** 
it surely one o^ the most important fimctions of criti- 
cism, while on the latter count, despite the occasional 
vehemence of the attack, it may be said that he sets 
a salutary example against the sort of complacency that 
is far too commonly met with in current criticism. 

Coming now to a consideration of Swinburne the 
poet, we find that his verse is about equally divided 
between the dramatic and non-dramatic forms. Of 



xvi [Iflntroimction 

dramatic work there are ten volumes^ including eleven 
plays, one of which is double the ordinary length ; of 
non-dramatic work there are fourteen volumes. By the 
author's own choice, as shown in the uniform edition 
of his poems now in course of issue, Atalanta and 
- Erechtheus are separated from the section of Dramatic 
Works and placed in the section of Poetical Works. 
This arrangement tips the balance to the side of the 
latter section, which, in the new edition, occupies six 
volumes out of the total eleven. It also provides a rea- 
sonable pretext for including in the present volume of 
selections certain choruses, which could ill be spared, 
taken from the two Greek dramas. 

Of Swinburne's poems in dramatic form, the two 
just mentioned are Greek in theme, and, to an aston- 
ishing extent, are also Greek in thought, feeling, and 
/ structure. The damson Agonistes of Milton is the only 
( Ot> IX work in English poetry with which they may 
^1 fairly be compared, and even that masterpiece, although 
; written in imitation of a Greek tragedy, is Hebraic 
- in its subject. But Atalanta in Calydonand Erechthetu 
are Greek through and through — that is, as nearly so 
as modem work can possibly be, for it must be said of 
all such imitations that ^* the best in this kind are but 
shadows." However deeply a poet of our timjB may 
be in sympathy with the Hellenic spirit, and whatever 
knowledge and enthusiasm he may bring to its repro- 
duction, the infusion of modern feeling is inevitable. 
In balance and symmetry and restraint the later work 
is the finer of the two, being the product of a riper 
and more chastened genius, but the earlier work has 



nil III 



tion xvu 



always been the more popular by reason of its lyrical 
spontaneity and the opulence of its inspiration. 

Of Swinburne's other dramas^ the three which deal 
with the fortunes of Mary Queen of Scots, constitut- 
mg a single work of comprehensive plan and colossal 
ezecudon, are much the most important. Nearly a 
scote of years went to the composition of this work, 
whieh ii a monument to the poet's historical scholar- 
ship as well as a masterpiece of flexible and compact 
blank verse. Mr. James Douglas says : '* It is as if a 
Gardiner had turned poet in order to paint passionately 
vivid portraits of Mary, of Bothwell, of Damley, of 
John Knox, and of the minor figures m a tragic coil 
of doom as awfiil as that of the Ores t eta.* ^ The divi- 
■ibftiif the trilogy are respectively entitled Chaste lard, 
Bifihdfill, and Mary Stuart, They cover more than a 
quarter-century of the Queen's life between her return 
from France and her execution. The poet's Jacobite 
ancestry, combined with his romandc temperament, 
made this subject appeal to him strongly, and he sounds 
a more intimate note than is customary with him in 
the valedictory verses which mark the completion of his 
labors. 

'* Queen, for whose house my fathen fought 
With hopes that rose and fell, 
Red star of boyhood's fiery thought, 
Farewell. 

'* Queen, once of Scots and ever of ours 
Whose sures brought forth for you 
Their lives to strew *'our way like flower% 
Adieu.** 



xviii 3|ittro>tictton 

Swinburne's remaining dramas^ six in number, are of 
much less importance than those above described. His 
first published book contsdned The Slueen Mother and 
Rosamond^ the former dealing with the Massacre of 
St. Bartholomew, and the latter — in five short scenes 
only — with the piteous tale of the bower at Wood- 
stock and the secret love of Henry II. Bodi sbow 
the marks of Elizabethan influence, and in them are 
foreshadowed many of the characteristic traits of the 
poet's genius. The Gi'eek plays and the Mary Stuart 
trilogy filled many years following, and it was not until 
a quarter of a century later that the poet's attention was 
called to the new-old subject of that venerable Doge of 
Venice who sought to avenge his wrongs by the be- 
trayal of the Republic, an interest which resulted ki 
the production oi Marino Faliero, fiir out-distancing 
Byron's treatment of the same theme. Locrsne, a nov- 
elty in rhymed metres, came next, and told once more 
the tragic legend of Sabrina, as found in Ge<^ey of 
Monmouth's British history, and adorned by many 
English poets from Spenser to Milton. The Sisters^ a 
comparatively unimportant<dvork, is difficult to take 
seriously. It is a love-tragedy of modem English so- 
ciety and contains little that is either poetic or Swin- 
bumian. Finally, another Rosamund, ^^h^liOmbard 
queen whose grim tragedy may be found in Gibbon, 
was made the subject of a drama written nearly forty 
years after the English Rosamond had occupied the 
attention of the youthful poet. The contrast between 
the two dramas is very striking, and marks all the dif- 
ference between unregulated impulsive art and re- 



SlnttMntdon xix 

strained artistic finish. The ezuberancCy the color^ the 
overwrought imagery, the verbal affluence, the Shake- 
spearian diction of the earlier work have vanished, and 
in their place we have sheer simplicity of vocabulary, 
passion intimated rather than ezin-essed, imagery re- 
duced to bare metaphor, and a dicdon well-nigh shorn 
of all mannerisms. ^. 

The genius of Swinburne is fnfimtifllljiLjyrifali and "^ 
even the utterance of his dramadc characters has more s 
of the singing than the speaking quality. We can hardly 
imagine any of his dramas produced upon any stage, or, 
if so produced, creating the illusion proper to the acted 
play. They are vmtten for the closet, not for the 
stage, and the accessories of the playhouse could add 
nothing to their impressiveness, could, indeed, hardly 
fsai to detract therefi-om. Lyricism is also the predomi- 
nant quality of Svdnbume's excursions into the domain 
of epic. These are chiefly represented by his two long 
narrative poems, Tristram of Lyonesse and The Tale 
of Baku. Both are studies in Arthurian legend, and 
both are widely different from the work of other modem 
delvers in that buried mediaeval treasure-house. Tris- 
tram of Lyonesse i in a prelude and nine cantos, amount- 
ing to more than four thousand lines, is a poem written 
in hecgi^cgijl^ts. But no other heroic couplets in 
^.ngfishi from Chaucer to Morris, have ever been sus- 
tained at such length with the fluency, the p^ion, and 
the ro mantic colorin g of these. For the first time in 
our poetry, tJiey make of this form an insmmient of j 
expression fidrly comparable with the blank verse of the 
masters. The Tale of Balen is versified from the 



XX iRntroOiKtioit 

Morte iP Arthur in about two hundred and fifty stanzas 
of nine lines each. The stanzaic form, nearly that of 
Tennyson's The Lady of Shalottf invites lyrical ex- 
pression more fi-eely than the rhymed couplet, and the 
pathedc story of the two brothers sings itself in flow 
ing measures fi-om its blithe beginning to its tragic 
ending. The poem follows the text of Malory with 
singular fidelity, and its loveliness quite justifies the 
rewriting of its noble prose orig^al. 

Having thus briefly described Swinburne's prose 
itwritingSj^^and hiftjgoem8_Ln^;amadc and epic form, w^e 
come now to the main task of this introductory essay, 
which b the characterization of the mass of his lyrica 
poetry. We have for ezaminadon the contents of mon 
than a dozen volumes, ranging fi-om the famous firs' 
series o^ Poems and Ballads ^ published in 1866, to A 
Channel Passage and Other Poems ^ published in 1904. 
Between these two dates there are the second and thirc 
series of Poems and Ballads^ the ^ongs before Sunrise ^ 
the Songs of Two Nations^ the Songs of the Springtides y 
the Studies in Song, the miscellaneous contents of the 
Tristram volume, A Century of Roundels, A Mid- 
summer Holiday and Other Poems, and Astrophel anu 
Other Poems, There is also The Heptalogia ; or,.th* 
Seven against Sense, a volume of parodies anonymous, 
published. The contents of the present selection a 
found, vdth the exception of the choruses from At^ 
lanta and Erechtheus, in the thirteen volumes tht 
enumerated. They are all comprised within the si 
volumes of the Poetical Works in the new unifbm 
edition. 



Blmroimctioti xxi 

m The first and most obvious thing to emphanze about 
i^; Swinburne's poetry is its astonishing, its almost unex- 
elf ampled, command of thepocti^l resources of Englis h 
i' * sgich. While it must be admkted that to Marlowe 
>^\ ' and Shakespeare and Milton, to Coleridge and Shelley 
if, and Tennyson, we owe the revelation of all the deeper 
ii ^ secrets of the inherent possibilities of English poetry, it 
ti>' * may well be allowed that Swinburne has shown him- 
self their most accomplished disciple, and that many a 
1^ secondary secret has been left for his discovery, many 
^( a richer employment of measures already created has 
h been left for him to make. To say as much as this is 
^ ^ hardly to do him justice, for i^ is only the bare tru th to 
f - as sert that 
^ ^ teiy 

"* U nd old , nr^e ^ffln ^n^e^f his f^\rt\nn anA fli^ wHth 

I o fhis me lod y have, indeed, operated to obscure to the 

^ ^ view of JS ^ficIal readers his qualitfes. of inteljectu^ 

■I power and ethical fer vor. Something will be said upon 

'' « these pomts later on; at present we are concerned with 

^ the form of his work alone. His blank verse would of 

' itself ofibr a study of almost inexhaustible fruitfulness, 

^ but for that we should have to depend chiefly on the 

' ^dramas. Something has already been said ofhis use of 

Xthe her oic c ouplet. His imitations of classical metres 

^are extraordinary tours de force ^ as are also the Greek 

"\ind Latin verses which he wrote in his earlier yeare. 

^^Incidentally, it may be mentioned that he vmtes French 

' verse as if to the manner bom He has worked in 

'' almost every imaginable form of English lyrical stanza, 

I from the simple four-lined typc ^with alternate rhy ^mes 




lat no other English poet has exhifeitcd^s jogs- i 
so great ajrari^yoL forms and rhythms, new 






xxii Untratmctioti 

^_,to the bewilderingly complex Hndaric ode. In the 
forms of continuous rhymed verse he has so nearly ex- 
hausted the possible combinations that his successors 
will be hard pressed to discover any that are at once 
new and legitimate. Rhymes never seem to fail him; 
he is as ready with half a dozen as with a pair, and 
double rhymes come easier to him than single ones to 
most poets. His more complicated metres and strophes 
require carefiil study before they disclose all their se 
crets, yet their great difficulty does not stiffen them or^ 
impede the free motion of the poet's thought. Mr\ 
Saintsbury speaks of his planning ''sea serpents in verscr 
in order to show how easily and gracefully he can make ^ 
them coil and uncoil their enormous length," of his : 
building ''mastodons of metre that we may admire the 
proportion and articulation of their mighty limbs.'' 
*^he verse does not merely run," says the same critic, 
/" it spins, gyrating and revolving in itself as well as 
proceeding on its orbit, the wave as it rushes on has 
eddies and backwaters of live interior movement. All 
the metaphors and similes of water, light, wind, lire, 
all the modes of motion, inspire and animate this aston- 
ishing poetry." 

The streams of influence that have converged in the 
creation of Swinburne's poetry, not only suppl3ring it 
with melodious suggestion, but also providing it with 
illustrations and informing it with ideals, might well be 
made the subject of an extended study. First of all» 
there is a richer heritage of national poetry than the 
citizen of any other European nation may boast, a heri- 
tage that no modem Englbhman has better known how 



XXIU 



IHHtl.MlllKt 



to appreciate and to prize than Swinburne. Fundamen- 
tally, he is an English poet, in sympathy with all the' 
deeper manifestations of the English spirit, and his joy 
in the work of Chaucer and Shakespeare, of Milton and \ 
Shelley, is alike genuine. In the second place, he drank 
copiously of the springs of Greek poetry in his forma^^ — '. 
dve years, and louned, more fully perhaps than any 
other great English poet, that '* the crown of all songs 
sung^' in the modem world is a new glory upon the . 
brow of Athens, that hers was ** the light that gave the % _ 
whole world light of old," and that Englishmen, more 
than most other modems, have drawn inspiradon from 
the Greeks, ** the fathers of their spirits." Hence we 
find in Swinburne's poetry, besides the avowed experi- 
ments in Greek forms, many subde evidences of Hel- 
lenic influence, — clarifying the expression and intensi-/ 
fying the beauty at countless points. In the third place, •' ^' 
he was profoundly affected by the Hebraic temper, 
both the spirit of the Old Testament and the very 
cadences of the Authorized Version finding manifold 
echoes in his verse. In the fourth place, he was deeply /^ . 
influenced by the poets of France and Italy. French ^ ' ' 
poetry, indeed, has found in him the most sympathetic ^ 
of modem English critics. The secrets of French pros-^ 
ody, for which few English readers have an ear, offer 
no mystery to his delicate rhythmic sense, and he has 
lived in ^miHar and loving communion with French 
verse, Bom Villon to Verlaine. What this source of in- 
spiradon has been to him may be .seen in his tributes to 
Gauder and Baudelaire, and in his paeans sung to the 
^ory of Victor Hugo. While the influence of Italian 



xxiv 3|ntroimttton 

poetry is less marked^ and, in the case of Dante, seems 
to be somewhat perfunctory, his love of Italy and his 
espousal of her national cause give color and passion to 
a large section of his verse, besides providing it with a 
specific argument. On the other hand, Germanic influ- 
ences are almost wholly missin g frpm^ his, work, and 
even Goethe seems to have made no appeal to him. 
This defect of sympathy sets a negative mark upon his 
,» work which calls for allowance in the characterizadon. 
.The themes of Swinburne's poetry are drawn in 
great variety from nature and the works of man. No 
poet has expressed more impressively than he the con- 
trast between the vexed insignificance of man and the 
calm sublimity of nature, — 

« O strong tun ! O sea ! 
I bid not you, divine things ! comfort me, 
I stand not up to match you in your ught ; 
Who liath said ye hare mercy toward us, ye who hare might ? ** 

But no poet has also more proudly matched the human 
spirit against all the material immensides which it con- 
templates, and so confidently asserted its inherent dig- 
nity and indefectible strength. Not, like Byron, seck- 

Siivg in nature an anodyne for grief, nor, like Coleridge 
^nd Wordsworth, disheartened by the deeds of men, 
turning to her for renewal of the spirit and strengthen- 
ing of the faith, we find Swinburne drawing from her 
from the first the elements of primal strength, and glory- 
ing in her power and beauty. [Of the sea, particularly, 

^ he has sung in rapturous strains mat no other English poet 
can match. The most magnificent lines of Tristram 
are those consecrated to the '* sublime sweet sepul- 



K 



M< i|li« II 



XXV 

chre" of the hapless lovenjpnd the consummation of 
Erechtheus is in the sealing, through a maiden's sacri- 
fice, of the pact whereby the sons of the violet-crowned 
city are given divine assurance that their descendants 
shall forever 

** Hare help of the waTct that made war on their morning, i 

And friendship and fiune of the tea. ** a. 

The glory of the sea in the triumph over the Persian is 
sung in Athens and in the defeat of Spain in The Ar^ 
mada — the two greatest of Swinburne's odes, ^n 
Thaiassius the poet calls himself a sea-flower, and as 
such recounts his spiritual autobiography. In the su- 
perb group of lyrics By the North Sea, we have pic- 
tured every mood and aspect of the sea, while On the 
Verge touches the utmost hdght of sublimity as it 
questions the unanswering sea concerning the soul of 
man and the eternal mystery of human &te. 
[^As a poet of nature, we feel that Swinburne's in- 
spiration comes from intimate communion with sea and 
sun, with mountains and woods and stars, while as a 
poet of man his work is largely the product of bookish. . 
influence^ the contact is made indirectly, through the * 
medium of human records, plulosophical systems, and 
works of literary art. In this sense Morris thought 
that Swinburne's poetry was too **Kterary," and there 
is a certain justice in the criticism. Literature is cer- 
tainly one of the main themes of his work, not in prose 
alone, for the number of his poems that are devoted to 1 
the praise of great writers is very large. A typical 
illustration of this is provided by his series of twenty- 



xxvi litooimctian 

two Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets, which char- 
acterize, ohe by one, in concise and discriminating 
terms, the entire line of Elizabethan dramatists. His 
poetical tributes to Chaucer, Sidney, Marlowe, ShdUey, 
Lamb, Browning, Baudelaire, and Gautier, are other 
notable examples of this section of his work. Many 
pieces of this character inscribed to his contemporaries 
are expressions ofj^oth artistic admiration and tender 
personal affection J^he generous warmth of these per- 
sonal poems showhim to have a rare genius for friend- 
ship. But his most extraordinary achievements in the 
^loriiicadon of other poets are found in his great odes 
xo Victor Hugo and Walter Savage Landor. Here he 
indulges himself in **the noble pleasure of praising" 

't(5 his^eart' 8 cbiltent. The exuberance of the poetical 
hero-worship here displayed has brought upon him the 
charge of extravagance, and his array of laudatory terms 
is sometimes such as would be difficult to justify in the 
dxy iight of the cridcal reasons But enthusiasm of this 
type is a fine and inspiring thmg, and, if he does over- 
emphasize the critical function of praise, shall it not be 
imputed to him for righteousness in an age when the 
tendency of criticism, and of Uterary scholarship in 

general, nms too ^ in the direction of historical ex- 
planation and dispassionate analysis ? 

■" — Nor are the poets the only recipients of his enthu- 
siastic laudadon. Throned with Hugo and Landor in 
the special pantheon of his idolatry is Oiusepp^ Mftg- 

^ adni, the aposde of the regeneration of ItJ^. In help- 
mg us to understand and feel the supreme spiritual im- 
portance of Mazzini's devoted labors in behalf of his 



3[|iitr0imctton xxvii 

countiy, Swinburne has done what the historians have 
signally fidled in doing. «« It is well for the world," 
says Frederic Myers, '* that the representative, for 
poetry even more than for history, of the last great 
straggle where all chivalrous sympathies could range 
themselves undoubtingly on one side, should have re- 
ceived a crown of song such as had scaixrely before 
been laid at the feet of any living hero." It would be 
difficult to find anywhere in modem poetry a worthier 
panegyric of gjife of pure and nobje endeavor than is 
embodied in the beautiful dedicadim to Mazzini of the 
Songs before Sunrise ^ the magnificent paean of A Song 
of Italy t and the exquisite verses written for the Geno- 
ese mcmument. Memorable tributes are also paid to 
Ixntfs Blanc, Richard Wagner, Aurelio Saffi, and the 
Countess Cairofi, who gave ims sons to the cause of * 
Italian freedom. Among the poems of more purely 
personal interest, none are more touching and tender 
than those which serve as dedications to his several 
volumes. 

The political happenings of the last half of the nine- 
teenth century found in Swinburne a keen observer 
and an eager partisan of every righteous cause; at least, 
of every cause in any way identified with the freedom 
of the body ^ocjhe spirit of man. The two movements 
which enlisted his sympathies most passionately were 
those which led to the creadon of United Italy and the^ 
restoration of the French Republic. To the former! 
movement we owe, not only the personal tributes to 
its heroes already mendoned, but also the whole col- 
lection of Songs before Sunrise^ that well-nigh in- 



L 



xxviii ^Introimttion 

comparable outpouring of lyrical beauty. It may be 
doubted if within the limits of any other single vol- 
ume of English poetry there may be found, in such 
spontaneity of flow and amplitude of stream, such rich 
and varied utterance, such ardor of love and scorn, and 
such expression of the most exalted ethical ideaUsm. 
And as a pendant to this volume we have the raptur- 
ous Song of Italy, hymning the splendor of the sun 
at last arisen. This is one of the two long poems 
included in the Songs of Two Nations. The otl^er 
b the stately Ode on the Proclamation of the French 
Republic, which is almost entitled to rank as a third 
in the company of Athens and The Armada. The 
twenty-four sonnets called Dirae fill out this volume, 
and their name is a very literal description of their 
contents. They are curses hurled at the contemporary 
oppressors of French and Italian liberty — Ferdinand II 
of Naples, Pius IX, and Louis Napoleon — and 
carry grim irony, stinging satire, and fierce invective 
to the utmost permissible limits, if not beyond, out- 
vying the Chatiments of Victor Hugo in their terrific 
denunciation of that modem «< saviour of society," 
Napoleon the Ldtde. It may be said that such vehe- 
mence of utterance defeats its own purpose, that a 
more restrained expression would also be more efiecdve. 
But however uncomfortably we may be stirred by the 
intensity of the poet's emodon, it must be observed 
that his lack of restraint does not extend to the artisdc 
form of his expression, for that is as flawless as if it 
were concerned with the gendest and least passionate 
of themes. And "if wrath" thus "embitter the 



JIttaoimcttott xxix 

sweet mouth of song," there are nevertheless mtny 
who, considering the deep wrongs that engaged his 
eloquence, will find in the poet's own closing Apologia 
the sufficient justificadon of his most intemperate speech. 
X^Swinbume has more than once declared himself to 
be a republican, yet his devodon to that abstract polit- 
ical idea has not dimmed his patriotism m the better 
sense.'^^e is clear-sighted enough to realize that the 
English monarchy is a historical inheritance not lightly 
to be done away with, and also to realize that Eng- 
land has attained the highest form of consdtudonal fixe- 
dom, while preserving her ancient framework of govern- 
ment. He does not hesitate, any more than did Cole- 
ridge and Wordsworth in their earlier years, to censure 
England for her sins of commission, or for her historical 
£ulures to rise to the opportunides thrown in her path 
by &te, nor does he ^1 to condemn alike the excesses 
of modem toryism and the compromises of modem 
liberalism ; but for all that, and for all his republican- 
ism, he glories in the national record as a whole, and 
holds unshaken the ^th that 

<* Where the ibodall sounds of England, where the tmile of Eng- 
land ahinet, 

Ringi the tread and laoghi the hat of freedom, fair as hope 
diiones 

Days to be, more bfare than ours and lit by lordlier stars for signs. 



** AH our past acclaims our future : Shakespeare's Toice and Nel- 
son's hand, 

Milton's faith and Wordsworth's trust in this our chosen and 
chainless land, 

Bear us witness : come the world against her, England yet shall 
stand. 



L 



XXX 3|itttotit(daii 

Swinburne's ideal of the Republic is not a belief in 
I mob-rule or in the divine mandate of every popular 
impulse ; it is rather the ideal of Milton and Landor 
and Mazadni, the ideal of a commonwealth in which the 
people shall be wise enough to trust those whom they 
have exalted to leadership, in which a recognition of 
the duties of man shall be held of more importance 
than a clamorous insistence upon his rights. Such an 
\ ideal may be approximately realized — and has been so 
j realized in England — under the forms of monarchy^ 
and so, ungrudgingly, yet in no spirit of servility, the 
/ poet has sung the praises of the past, has justified the 
present order temporarily existing, and has joined sin- 
cerely in the celebration of the Queen's Jubilee and other 
recent occasions of nadonal rejoicing. 

Swinburne's attitude toward the fundamental notions 
of religious belief has been variously described as that 
of paganism, pantheism, and pananthropism. It is a 
pagan attitude only in so &r as he has given us a vivid 
setting forth of the contrast between classical and Chris- 
tian ideals. In the Hymn to Proserpine and The Last 
I Oracle, sdll more in the two Greek tragedies, he has 
, presented the pagan point of view with so marvellous 
a degree of insight and penetrative sympathy that some 
of his readers have taken for a confession of ^th what 
^i»^o more than a study in dramadc effect. A real 
confession of faith, no doubt, is embodied in Hertha 
and the Hymn of Man, and those who wish to call this 
viaith panthebtic or pananthropomorphic are welcome 
to th«L terms. They have lost whatever terrors they 
once had for dmid minds, and now move in the best 



X 



' • ii iri ; 1 1 1 



XXXI 



theological society. Whatever we may call it, Swin- 
burne's religion is that of one who resolutely rejects all 
dogmas and historical creeds, and with equal earnest- 
ness clings to the divine idea that underlies the creeds 
and bestows upon them their vitality. He draws the 
same sharp cimtrast that is drawn by Shelley and Hugo 
between the eternal spirit of Christianity and its histof^J 
ical accretions. Hugo wrote an effective reply. To the . 
Bishop Who Called Me Atheist^ completely turning the 
tables on his clerical assailant, and Swinburne might 
fairly treat his own critics in similar Aishion. He must 
be a blind reader who cannot see that even the scath- 
ing stanzas of Brfbre a Crucifix constitute in reality a 
defence of the Founder of Christianity against his cari- 
caturists, — 

'< Because of whom we dare not lore thee \ 
Though hearts reach back and memories ache. 
We cannot praise thee for their sake.** 

This poet, at least, is of those who 

" Change not the gold of ^th for dross . 
Of Christian creeds that spit on Christ.** 

It is only the barest justice to apply to him the words 
which Browning wrote of Shelley : *' I call him a man 
of religious mind, because every audacious negative cast 
up by him against the Divine was interpenetrated with 
a mood of reverence and adoration, — and because I 
find him everywhere taking for granted some of the 
capital dogmas of Christianity, while most vehemently 
denying their historical basement." The two poems 
whkh most clearly show forth his larger rehgious out- 



/ 



xxxii 3|ntroimttlon 

look are unquestionably Hertha and the Hymn of Man* 
In them we have the expression of that God-intoxicated 
concepdon of the universe which penetrates beneath 
the distincdon of subject and object, the disdncdon even 
of Creator and created, and rests upon the idea of the 
underlying unity, the idea of God everywhere imma- 
nent in nature. Hertha^ in particular, may be a per- 
plexing poem to the type of mind which finds a stumb- 
ling-block in Emerson's Brahma ^ but it is clear enough 
in its meaning to those who know thdr Goethe and their 
Spinoza. Swinburne made sport, in an ingenious parody, 
of Tennyson's The Higher Pantheism^ but his own 
^p anthebm amounts to substantially the, same thing. 
■^^^^-^JCUe bond between ethics and religion is vital in all 
systems of thought that have an enduring hold upon 
the minds and hearts of men. And all poets who arouse, 
as Swinburne does, the deepest of our religious emo- 
tions, must bring fitting words to bear upon the con- 
duct of life. It is the glory of the great English poets 
of the nineteenth century, of Shelley and Wordsworth, 
of Tennyson and Browning and Arnold, that they have 
met this obligadon, not indeed with an ofiensive ob- 
trusion of didacticism, but with a none the less em- 
phatic pronouncement in favor of whatsoever things are 
lovely and of good report in human endeavor. Swin- 
burne, in all but the unripened work of his earliest 
years, joins himself to the company of these men, and 
becomes an ethical teacher in the most persuasive and 
eloquent sense. The essential attributes of the Chris- 
tian temper receive his fidlest sympathy, save only the 
meek and lowly attitude, upon which he pours out the 



Introlittctton xxxiii 

vials of his scorn. Like Kant, he is filled with awe in 
contemplation of the boundless universe and of the soul 
of man alike, and the notion of humility does not com- 
port with his exalted conception of man's spiritual pos- 
sibilities. His attitude is that of Chapman, holding it 
unlawful that man ** should stoop to any other law *^ 
than that laid down by his own higher nature, of Omar 
Khayyam, offering to treat with his Creator upon equal 
terms, and abating no jot or dtde of his own self-respect. 

** A creed is a rod, 

And a crown is of niigfat ; 
But this thing is Ood, 

To be man with thy might, 
To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and lire out thy 
life as the light** 

^It is in the prelude of the Soffgs before Sunrise that we 
jSnd the most magnificent expression of the claims of 
the indomitable human spirit, of the soul that stands 
erect in the presence of all adverse fortunes, and bids 
defiance to all malign fates. 

" Since only souls that keep their place 
By their own light, and watch things roll, 
Ajnd stand, have light for any soul.** 

This proud exaltation of the fiiU-statured soul, secure 
in the co nsciousness of itn ftY^n jg^rfngth. is the key to 
Swinburne's etiiics, through its close reladon to his cpn- 
cepticg^. of duty and his strenuous demand for complete 
sacrifice of self, for utter and absolute devotion ,to the 
cause of man's bodily and spiritual freedom. This cate- 
gorical imperadve of Swinburne's ethics finds its noblest / 
embodiment in The Pilgrims and Super Flumina Baby- -/^ 



/' 



/ 



xxxiv 3| ntr o mcrt on 



imb. There is no finer ethical message in all EngHsb 
poetry than breathes through the lines of these two 
/lofty poems. No other poet has forced upon us with 
greater impressiveness what Frederic Myers calls *' the 
resolve that even if there be no moral purpose already 
\ in the world, roan shall put it there ; that even if all 
/ evolution be necessarily truncated, yet moral evoludon, 
/ so long as our race lasts, there shall be ; that even if 
( man's virtue be momentary, he shall act as though it 
were an eternal gain." No foundation for the ethical 
\ life can be firmer than this, for it rests upon the very 
^ rock of human nature, and does not need to be but- 
tressed by systems or creeds or imagined supernatural 
sanctions. It was an inspiring message that the finer 
spirits of the French Revolution bequeathed as a legacy 
to the nineteenth century ; is not the message equally 
inspiring which the one great poet left living at the close 
of the nineteenth century has brought with his own 
hands to the twentieth century as a g^ft ? 

Having now passed in rapid review the leading as- 
i pects of Swinburne's poetry, its mas tery of l yrical fomiy 
^ ^ J /f-j the influences f^^ t^aY? ah^P*^^ if;,'anrfnr>ie essenHat 
\ / ^3 themes that ^^'^^^nfrnpiH ^*^^ flffpntipn^ a few words 
' *\ m^^e^giveh to certain minor features that are needed 
' ^ to complete the picture. At one point only does his 
work come close to the common interests of every-day 
domestic Hfe. As a lover of children, and as s^fiioge^J 
IJ of the mys tery and winsomeness of childhood, he ap- i 
* peals to wRat is prbTSably ^s widest audience. His 
.^" eth ical ph ilpjjQphy, his poHt5caL4tfssion, and his tran- 
/ scendental envisagcment of nature are upon a plane so 



JItittoimcttou XXXV 

lofty as to leave many readers unresponsive^ but in 
childhood he has a theme universally attractive, and he 
has treated of it with a fi'agrance and tenderness unsur- 
passed in English poetry. A certain small amount of 
his work is of so topical a character that its interest 
lapsed with the occaaons that gave rise to it, and no- 
ting but its extraordinary cleverness and vigor makes 
it worthy of preservation. His verse of this sort is 
mainly p olitical, and political verse is apt to lose its< 
point when men have ceased to be excited by the exi- 
gencies which evoked it. Swinburne's imitative work / 
is so remarkable that it calls for a special word of men^ 
tion besides what has already been said of his facile 
writing of Greek, Latin, and French verse, and his 
English reproduction of classical metres. It is illus- 
trated by his translations from Aristophanes and Villon, 
by his copying of the old poetical forms of Chaucerian 
tale, miracle play, and border ballad, and by the pieces 
in the Heptalogia^ which parody with diaboUcal inge- 
nuity the mannerisms of his English contemporaries. 
There is something positively uncanny in the wizardry 
which these things display, and in this many-sided virtu- 
osity he stands adone among English poets. 

The foregoing pages have set forth in some detail 
the grounds of Swinburne's title to a place among the 
greater poets of the English nineteenth century. His 
high rank among them, and the unique present isolation 
of his genius, are &cts now so generally recognized by 
competent critics that they hardly admit of discussion. 
But with the masses of readers the case is difierent, 
and it must be confessed that Swinburne is littie mcn-e 



xxxvi 3|ncr<tfmttion 

than t name to countless thousands who are on intimate 
terms with Tennyson and Browning. Two of his ear- 
liest works — Atalanta in Calydm and the famous first 
collection oi Poems and Ballads — are widely ^miliar; 
the others are almost unknown. An obvious explanation 
of this singular state of afiairs is offered by the fact that 
his works have been published in many small and ex- 
pensive volumes, and thus made practically inaccessible 
to the larger public. A complete Tennyson or Brown- 
ing may be had in a single volume at a moderate price; 
a complete Swinburne (counting the poetry alone) has 
hitherto meant the purchase of more than a score of 
volumes at almost prohibitive cost. Even the forth- 
coming collected edidon will occupy eleven volumes, 
and will not do much toward placing the whole of 
Swinburne in the hands of readers in general. In addi- 
tion to this very practical impediment, another quite as 
serious is offered by the too poedcal character of his 
work. This may seem a paradoxical saying, but it is 
the simple truth that comparadvely few readers of 
poetry appreciate it for its own sake. Even cridcs are 
apt to concern themselves overmuch with the acd- 
/ dentals of poetry, and nine readers out of every tenN 
I who claim to find enjoyment in the poets are really J 
interested for the most part in their personality, them 
^ teaching, and what is frequendy called their ''message] 
'' to. the age/' A great deal has been said in the present^ 
Introducdon about Swinburne's ideas, but only because 
J these ideas are embodied in forms of the richest literary 

art. ffte ^ remains pri Tiarily a p^^*" ^"^ pOf^'j and for 
, . ^ thoseD'equent lovers of poetry who have some degree 

c • 



3|ntroimcttoi xxxvu 

of insight into the severe conditions self-imposed upon 
its genuine makers, some power of appreciating poetical 
effects apart from their investiture of thougRn Now in 
the very choice of his themes Swinbume^SS deliber- 
ately eschewed the striving for popular applause. Aside 
from his lovely verses about children, there is no con- 
siderable group of poems that appeals to the common 
instincts of domesticity. He has written nothing of the 
type of Tennyson's Maud and Enoch Arden and The 
Princess. Aldiough the passion of love counts for much 
in his work, it is not the form of love that Browning's 
Men and Women brings into such intimate reladons 
with our own most vivid personal experiences ; it is 
rather the form that is coupled with high endeavor and 
heroic energy, with fateful old-world histories, with 
Tristram and Yseult, with the Queen of Scots, with 
the English and the Lombard Rosamunds. This choice k 
of themes, combined with a treatment that allows al- ' 
most nothing for sentiment, that is both abstract and ) 
austere, is not calculated to bring the generality of read- \ 
ers into intimacy with his work; it requires a certain 
strenuousness of temper, a certain detachment from the 
^J^tual prosaic plane of life, to catch the contagion of 
his spirit, to participate in his pursuit of lofty ^md re- 
mote ideals. Taking all these things into account, it is 
small wonder that he should be no more popular a poet 
than Milton, that the phrases of his mintage should not 
have passed into general currency, that the winged 
words of his song should not have become widely do- 
mesticated as household words. 

The popular estimate of Swinburne, as far as such 



xxxviii 3f|ntroimctfon 

a thing exists, has been made mostly at second hand. 
It is a composite of hearsay, of superficial acquaintance 
with a few of the strays of his work, and of a legend 
based upon the sensational journalism of more than a 
generation ago. Into this estimate only a small and 
comparatively unimportant finction of hb work enters 
at all; the chief bulk of his writing, including nearly 
all its greatest achievements, simply does not exist. If 
the average glib critic, ready to dispose of Swinburne 
in a single contemptuous phrase, be closely questioned, 
he will be found to have in mind Laus Veneris ^ Do- 
loreu ^uid a few other juvenile pieces. But ask him of 
Erechtheus and Bothwell and Thalassius and the Songs 
before Sunrise and the great Odes, and you shall find 
him ignorant of their contents, perhaps of their very 
titles. To expose in detail the inadequacy of the com- 
mon opinion thus based, is beyond the purpose of this 
essay. The selections that are given in the present vol- 
ume may be trusted to perform that task without argu- 
ment. But a moment's attention must be given to the 
two greatest of the misconceptions that seem to attach to 
Swinburne's work. One of them is the vox et praeterea 
nihil theory, the notion that his astounding verbal 
mastery is a cloak for the concealment of intellectual 
poverty. Now if anything has J^een made clear in the 
foregoing pages it is,Aftt his range of intellectual inter- 
ests is wider than that of most poets, that in dealing with 
many of his subjects he is if anything overloaded with in- 
formation. Yet the fact that he does not fling his learn- 
ing at the reader in undigested lumps, but subordinates 
the exhibition to the strictest law of artistic expression. 



3ltttiomi(tton xxxix 

becomes a pretext for charging him with vagaenest and 
shallowness of thought, which is surely an illustration 
of what is called, in his own fiivorite phrase, ** homy- 
eyed " criticism. A certain difiiiseness is the condition 
of success in the long and swingmg metres which best 
exemplify his powers, but when working in closer and 
severer forms, he can be as compact as Browning or 
Tennyson. The other popular misconception is that 
which makes him a poet of passion in the vulgar accepta- 
tion of the term. That this grotesque notion shcuhl 
still prevail is a direct consequence of the unfortunate 
manner of his introduction to the general public. It is 
based upon a few pieces only, flill of the recklessness ' 
of exuberant youth, contained in that single early col- 
lection of poems of which he himself said at the time 
of its publication, — 

" The youngest were bom of boy*t pastime, 
The eldest are young.** 

And so to many people the poet of Thalassius and the 
Songs before Sunrise still stands for morbid sensualism ; 
the poet who almost ihore than any of his fellow singers 
<.^altsjspirit above sense, and transports his readers into 
an atmosphere almost too rarefied for ordinary mortals 
to breathe, remains the poet of unregulated passion and 
defiance of the most universally accepted ethical sanc- 
tions. This affords a striking illustration of the persist- 
ence of an irrational prejudice, of the difficulty of 
destroying a legend once fixed in the popular imagina- ; 
tion. Pasaon this poet has without doubt, and in abund- . 
ance, but it is the passion of the intellect rather than 



xl 3f|nti^oliutttoti 

of the heart. It is the passion of Shelley's Hymn to 
Intellectual Beauty or of Arnold's Empedocles on Etna. 
lln his ve^, — 

' <<Thin, thin the pleasant human noiaes grow, 
And famt the city gleams j ** — 

we seem lifted into a thinner and purer air than invests 
our daily life, and brought into communion with the 
peab and the stars. Nowhere else in our poetry, ex- 
cept in Wordsworth's loftiest flights, do we get this 
sense of spaciousness, of the fi*ee motion of the spirit 
in some supramundane sphere. 

When the comparative claims made for the greater 
English poets of the nineteenth century shall receive 
their definite adjudication at the tribunal of criticism, 
there can be fittie doubt that to Shelley, Words- 
worth, and Tennyson, in this ultimate reckoning, 
there will be conceded a higher place than that al- 
lowed to Swinburne. Keats and Coleridge, by virtue 
of a few perfect poems. Browning and Arnold, by vir- 
tue of a special appeal to^the intellectual rather than the 
strictly aesthetic element in appreciation, may also be 
cherished by many with a deeper aiSection. Some may — 
discover in Byron's ** supeifb energy of sincerity and 
strength ' ' a more positive inspiration; some may recog- 
nize in Landor's severe yet'%istfol restraint a finer 
example; some may even find in the artistic passion of 
Rossetti or in the golden haze of Morris a surer stim- 
ulus to the deeper sensibilities — but with all these, at 
least, Swinburne will be found fairly comparable in the 
impressivenesa of his achievement as a whole. The rich 



]]f|ntndiit(ttott xii 

diversity of that achievement, the splendid artistry of 
its performance, and the high and austere idealism 
which informs it, are qualities that may safely be trusted 
to save it from the oblivion in which die work of all but 
the greatest poets becomes engulfed soon after they have 
passed away from among men. 



ptifatijivt l^te 



The poems in this volume are printed complete. The 
only exceptions to this rule are the choruses from Ata^ 
lanta in Calydon and Erechtheus^ and the sonnet on 
-^ Browning, which is the last of a sequence of seven writ- 
ten at the time of his death. The editor has adopted a 
classified, instead of a chronological, arrangement of the 
poems selected, believing this to be the better of the two 
plans for the purpose of exhibidng the distinctive aspects 
of the poet^s genius. Swinburne* s work does not fall into 
periods, nor does it display the progressive refinement of 
art which would make the date of a poem especially sig- 
nificant. Between the poems of his youth and those of his 
maturer years there are no marked differences of artistic 
finish. There are, of course, a gradual ripening of 
thought and chastening of manner to be observed as we 
progress from his first volume to his last, yet in most 
cases it would be difficult to determine from internal evi- 
dence the approximate dates of the poems. Nevertheless, 
in the appended Notes each poem is referred to the vol- 
ume in which it originally appeared, and this reference, 
taken in connection with the Chronological List of Writ- 
ings, provides the means of placing the poems exactly 
where they belong. 



» « 



4< 



Select )^oem0 of ^tvfnlwtne 



ODES 



ATHENS 

AN ODE 

£r£ from under earth again like fire the violet 
kindle, [&r. i. 

Ere the holy buds and hoar on olive-branches 
bloom. 
Ere the crescent of the last pale month of winter 
dwindle. 
Shrink, and fall as falls a dead leaf on the 
dead month's tomb. 
Round the hills whose heights the first-born 
olive-blossom brightened. 
Round the city brow-bound once with violets 
like a bride. 
Up from under earth again a light that long 
since lightened 
Breaks, whence all the world took comfort 
as all time takes pride. 



m 



z ^ JS€\ntj^om& i6r ^tDinbume 






Pride have all men in their fathers that were 
free before them. 
In the warriors that begot us free-born pride 
have we : 
But the fathers of their spirits, how may men 
adore them, 
With what rapture may we praise, who bade 
our souls be free ? 
Sons of Athens born in spirit and truth are all 
born free men ; 
Most of all, we, nurtured where the north wind 
holds his reign : 
Children all we sea-folk of the Salaminian sea- 
men, ' 
Sons of them that beat back Persia they that 
beat back Spain. 
Since the songs of Greece fell silent, none like 
ours have risen ; 
Since the sails of Greece fell slack, no ships 
have sailed like ours ; 
How should we lament not, if her spirit sit in 
prison ? 
How should we rejoice not, if her wreaths 
renew their flowers? 
All the world is sweeter, if the Athenian violet 
quicken : 
All the world is brighter, if the Athenian sun 
return : 



SUiftM 3 

All things foul on earth wax fainter, by that 
sun's light stricken : 
AU ill growths are withered, where those 
fragrant flower-lights burn. 
All. the wandering waves of seas with all their 
warring waters 
Roll the record on for ever of the sea-fight 
there. 
When the capes were battle's lists, and all the 
straits were slaughter's. 
And the myriad Medes as foam-flakes on the 
scattering air. 
Ours the lightning was that cleared the north 
and lit the nations. 
But the light that gave the whole world light 
of old was she : 
Ours an age or twain, but hers are endless gen- 
erations : 
All the world is hers at heart, and most of all 
are we. 

Ye that bear the name about you of her glory. 
Men that wear the sign of Greeks upon you 
sealed, [Ant, i. 

Yours is yet the choice to write yourselves in 
story 
Sons of them that fought the Marathonian 
field. 



4 ^lect pottM of ^tDinbume 

Slaves of no man were ye, said your warrior 
poet. 
Neither subject unto man as underlings : 
Yours is now the season here wherein to show it. 
If the seed ye be of them that knew not kings. 
If ye be not, swords nor words alike found 
brittle 
From the dust of earth to raise you shall pre- 
vail: 
Subject swords and dead men's words may stead 
you little. 
If their old king-hating heart within you fail. 
If your spirit of old, and not your bonds, be 
broken. 
If the kingless heart be molten in your 
breasts. 
By what signs and wonders, by what word or 
token. 
Shall ye drive the vultures from your eagles' 
nests ? 
All the gains of tyrants Freedom counts for 
losses ; 
Nought of all the work done holds she worth 
the work. 
When the slaves whose faith is set on crowns 
and crosses 
Drive the Cossack bear against the tiger 
Turk. 



SMftM 5 

Neither cross nor crown nor crescent shall ye 
bow to, 
Nought of Araby nor Jewry, priest nor king ; 
As your watchword was of old, so be it now 
too: 
As from lips long stilled, from yours let heal^ 
ing spring. 
Through the fights of old, your battle-cry was 
healing. 
And the Saviour that ye called on was the 
Sun : 
Dawn by dawn behold in heaven your God, re- 
vealing 
Light from darkness as when Marathon was 
won. 
Gods were yours yet strange to Turk or Galilean, 
Light and Wisdom only then as gods adored : 
Pallas was your shield, your comforter was 
Paean, 
From your bright world's navel spake the Sun 
your Lord. 

Though the names be lost, and changed the 
signs of Light and Wisdom be, l^P- '• 

By these only shall men conquer, by these only 
be set free : 

When the whole world's eye was Athens, these 
were yours, and theirs were ye. 



6 Select Ifpotmsf of ^tDinbume 

Light was given you of your wisdom, li^t ye 

gave the world again : 
As the sun whose godhead lightened on her soul 

was Hellas then : 
Yea, the least of all her children as the chosen 

of other men. 
Change your hearts not with your garments, nor 

your faith with creeds that change : 
Truth was yours, the truth which time and 

chance transform not nor estrange : 
Purer truth nor higher abides not in the reach 

of time's whole range. 
Gods are they in all men's memories and for all 

time's periods. 
They that hurled the host back seaward which 

had scourged the sea with rods : 
Gods for us are all your fathers, even the least 

of these as gods. 
In the dark of days the thought of them is with 

us, strong to save. 
They that had no lord, and made the Great 

King lesser than a slave ; 
They that rolled all Asia back on Asia, broken 

like a wave. 
No man's men were they, no master's and no 

God's but these their own ; 
Gods not loved in vain nor served amiss, nor all 

yet overthrown : 



Mfttui 7 

Love of country. Freedom, Wisdom, Light, and 

none save these alone. 
King by king came up against them, sire and 

son, and turned to flee : 
Host on host roared westward, mightier each 

than each, if more might be : 
Field to field made answer, clamorous like as 

wave to wave at sea. 
Strife to strife responded, loud as rocks to clan- 
gorous rocks respond 
Where the deep rings wreck to seamen held in 

tempest's thrall and bond, 
Till when war's bright work was perfect peace 

as radiant rose beyond : 
Peace made bright with fruit of battle, stronger 

made for storm gone down. 
With the flower of song held heavenward for 

the violet of her crown 
Woven about the fragrant forehead of the fos- 

tress maiden's town. 
Gods arose alive on earth from under stroke of 

human hands : 
As the hands that wrought them, these are dead, 

and mixed with time's dead sands : 
But the godhead of supernal song, though these 

may stand not, stands. 
Pallas is not, Phoebus breathes no more in breath- 
ing brass or gold : 



8 ^Irct poetntf of ^tDinbume 

Clytaemnestra towers, Cassandra wails, for ever : 

Time is bold. 
But nor heart nor hand hath he to unwrite the 

scriptures writ of old. 
Dead the great chryselephantine God, as dew 

last evening shed : 
Dust of earth or foam of ocean is the symbol of 

his head : 
Earth and ocean shall be shadows when Prome' 

theus shall be dead. 

Fame around her warriors living rang through 
Greece and lightened, [Str. ». 

Moving equal with their stature, stately with 
their strength : 
Thebes and Lacedaemon at their breathing pre- 
sence brightened. 
Sense or sound of them filled all the live land's 
breadth and length. 
All the lesser tribes put on the pure Athenian 
fashion. 
One Hellenic heart was from the mountains 
to the sea : 
Sparta's bitter self grew sweet with high half- 
human passion. 
And her dry thorns flushed aflower in strait 
Thermopylae. 
Fruitless yet the flowers had fallen, and all the 
deeds died fruitless, 



Save that tongues of after men, the children 
of her peace, 
Took the tale up of her glories, transient else 
and rootless. 
And in ears and hearts of all men left the 
praise of Greece. 
Fair the war-time was when still, as beacon 
answering beacon. 
Sea to land flashed fight, and thundered note 
of wrath or cheer j 
But the strength of noonday night hath power 
to waste and weaken. 
Nor may light be passed from hand to hand 
of year to year 
If the dying deed be saved not, ere it die for 
ever 
By the hands and lips of men more wise than 
years are strong; 
If the soul of man take heed not that the deed 
die never, 
Clothed about with purple and gold of story, 
crowned with song. 
Still the burning heart of man and boy alike 
rejoices, 
Hearing words which made it seem of old for 
all who sang 
That their heaven of heavens waxed happier 
when from free men's voices 



10 ^^elrct porm0 of ^^toinbume 

Well-beloved Harmodius and Aristogeiton rang. 
Never fell such fragrance from the flower- 
month's rose-red kirtle 
As from chaplets on the bright friends' brows 
who slew their lord : 
Greener grew the leaf and balmier blew the 
flower of myrtle 
When its blossom sheathed the sheer tyran- 
nicidal sword. 
None so glorious garland crowned the feast 
Panathensean 
As this wreath too frail to fetter fast the 
Cyprian dove : 
None so fiery song sprang sunwards annual as 
the paean 
Praising perfect love of friends and perfect 
country's love. 

Higher than highest of all those heavens where- 

from the stirry [Ant. 2. 

Song of Homer shone above the rolling fight. 

Gleams like spring's green bloom on boughs all 

gaunt and gnarry 

Soft live splendour as of flowers of foam in 

flight. 

Glows a glory of mild-winged maidens upward 
mounting 
Sheer through air made shrill with strokes of 
smooth swift wings 



9U^tne II 

Round the rocks beyond foot's reach, past eye- 
sight's counting, 
Up the cleft where iron wind of winter rings 
Round a God fast clenched in iron jaws of 
fetters, 
Him who culled for man the fruitful flower 
of fire. 
Bared the darkling scriptures writ in dazzling 
letters. 
Taught the truth of dreams deceiving men's 
desire. 
Gave their water-wandering chariot-seats of 
ocean 
Wings, and bade the rage of war-steeds champ 
the rein, 
Showed the symbols of the wild birds' wheeling 
motion. 
Waged for man's sake war with God and all 
his train. 
Earth, whose name was also Righteousness, a 
mother 
Many-named and single-natured, gave him 
breath 
Whence God's wrath could wring but this word 
and none other — 
He may smite me^ yet he shall not do to death. 
Him the tongue that sang triumphant while tor- 
mented 



12 ^lect TffionM of ^tohtbume 

Sang as loud the sevenfold storm that roared 
erewhile 
Round the towers of Thebes till wrath might 
rest contented : 
Sang the flight from smooth soft-sanded banks 
of Nile, 
When like mateless doves that fly from snare or 
tether 
Came the suppliants landwards trembling as 
they trod, 
And the prayer took wing from all their tongues 
together — 
King of kings y most holy of holies^ blessed God. 
But what mouth may chant again, what heart 
may know it. 
All the rapture that all hearts of men put on 
When of Salamis the time-transcending poet 
Sang, whose hand had chased the Mede at 
Marathon ? 

Darker dawned the song with stormier wings 

above the watch-fire spread [Ep, a. 

Whence from Ida toward the hill of Hermes 

leapt the light that said 
Troy was fallen, a torch funereal for the king's 

triumphal head. 
Dire indeed the birth of Leda's womb that had 

God's self to sire 



SUl^g 13 

Bloomed, a flower of love that stung the soul 

with fangs that gnaw like fire : 
But the twin-born human-fathered sister-flower 

bore fruit more dire. 
Scarce the cry that called on airy heaven and all 

swift winds on wing, 
Wells of river-heads, and countless laugh of 

waves past reckoning. 
Earth which brought forth all, and the orbed 

sun that looks on everything, 
Scarce that cry fills yet men's hearts more full 

of heart-devouring dread 
Than the murderous word said mocking, how 

the child whose blood he shed 
Might clasp fast and kiss her father where the 

dead salute the dead. 
But the latter note of anguish from the lips that 

mocked her lord, \ 

When her son's hand bared against the bre^t 

that suckled him his sword. 
How might man endure, O iEschylus, to hear 

it and record ? 
How might man endure, being mortal yet, O 

thou most highest, to hear ? 
How record, being born of woman ? Surely 

not thy Furies near. 
Surely this beheld, this only, blasted hearts to 

death with fear. 



14 ^^elrct Tffiotms of ^^toinbume 

Not the hissing hair, nor flakes of blood that 
oozed from eyes of fire, 

Nor the snort of savage sleep that snuffed the 
hungering heart's desire 

Where the hunted prey found hardly space and 
harbour to respire ; 

She whose likeness called them — ''Sleep ye, 
ho ? what need of you that sleep ? " 

(Ah, what need indeed, where she was, of all 
shapes that night may keep 

Hidden dark as death and deeper than men's 
dreams of hell are deep ?) 

She the murderess of her husband, she the hunt- 
ress of her son, 

More than ye was she, the shadow that no God 
withstands but one. 

Wisdom equal-eyed and stronger and more 
splendid than the sun. 

Yea, no God may stand betwixt us and the 
shadows of our deeds. 

Nor the light of dreams that lighten darkness, 
nor the prayer that pleads. 

But the wisdom equal-souled with heaven, the 
light alone that leads. 

Light whose law bids home those childless chil- 
dren of eternal night. 

Soothed and reconciled and mastered and trans- 
muted in men's sight 



9U^tM IS 

Who behold their own souls, clothed with dark- 
ness once, now clothed with light. 

King of kings and father crowned of all our 
fathers crowned of yore, 

Lord of all the lords of song, whose head all 
heads bow down before, 

Glory be to thee from all thy sons in all tongues 
evermore. 

Rose and vine and olive and deep ivy-bloom 
entwining [^'•.3. 

Close the goodliest grave that e*cr they close- 
liest might entwine 
Keep the wind from wasting and the sun from 
too strong shining 
Where the sound and light of sweetest songs 
still float and shine. 
Here the music seems to illume the shade, the 
light to whisper 
Song, the flowers to put not odours only forth, 
but words 
Sweeter far than fragrance : here the wandering 
wreaths twine crisper 
Far, and louder far exults the note of all wild 
birds. 
Thoughts that change us, joys that crown and 
sorrows that enthrone us. 
Passions that enrobe us with a clearer air 
than ours. 



1 6 &t\m Tjl^tme of ^^toinbume 

Move and breathe as living things beheld round 
white Colonus, 
Audibler than melodies and visibler than 
flowers. 
Love, in fight unconquered, Love, with spoils 
of great men laden. 
Never sang so sweet from throat of woman 
or of dove : 
Love, whose bed by night is in the soft cheeks 
of a maiden. 
And his march is over seas, and low roofs 
lack not Love ; 
Nor may one of all that live, ephemeral or eter- 
nal. 
Fly nor hide from Love ; but whoso clasps 
him fast goes mad. 
Never since the first-born year with flowers first- 
born grew vernal 
Such a song made listening hearts of lovers 
glad or sad. 
Never sounded note so radiant at the rayless 
portal 
Opening wide on the all-concealing lowland 
of the dead 
As the music mingling, when her doomsday 
marked her mortal. 
From her own and old men's voices round the 
bride's way shed. 



SUIftn$^ 17 

Round the grave her bride-house, hewn for end- 
less habitation, 
Where, shut out from sunshine, with no bride- 
groom by, she slept ; 
But beloved of all her dark and fateful genera- 
tion. 
But with all time's tears and praise besprinkled 
and bewept : 
Well-beloved of outcast father and self-slaugh- 
tered mother. 
Born, yet unpolluted, of their blind incestuous 
bed; 
Best-beloved of him for whose dead sake she 
died, her brother. 
Hallowing by her own life's gift her own bom 
brother^s head ; 

Not with wine or oil nor any less libation 
Hallowed, nor made sweet with humbler 
perfume's breath ; [^nt. 3. 

Not with only these redeemed from desecration. 
But with blood and spirit of life poured forth 
to death ; 
Blood unspotted, spirit unsullied, life devoted. 
Sister too supreme to make the bride's hope 
good. 
Daughter too divine as woman to be noted, 
Spouse of only death in matekss maidenhood. 



1 8 ^lect TffiottM of ^toinbumr 

Yea, in her was all the prayer fulfilled, the 
saying 
All accomplished — Would that fate would let 
me wear 
Hallowed innocence of words and all deeds^ weigh- 
ing 
Well the laws thereof begot on holier air^ 
Far on high sublimely stablished^ whereof only 
Heaven is father ; nor did birth of mortal 
mould 
Bring them forth ^ nor shall oblivion lull to lonely 
Slumber. Great in these is God^ and grows not 
old. 
Therefore even that inner darkness where she 
perished 
Surely seems as holy and lovely, seen aright, 
As desirable and as dearly to be cherished. 
As the haunt closed in with laurels from the 

light. 
Deep inwound with olive and wild vine inwoven. 
Where a godhead known and unknown makes 
men pale, 
But the darkness of the twilight noon is cloven 
Still with shrill sweet moan of many a night- 
ingale. 
Closer clustering there they make sweet noise 
together, 
Where the fearful gods look gentler than our 
fear. 



SUIftM 19 

And the grove thronged through with birds of 
holiest feather 
Grows nor pale nor dumb with sense of dark 
things near. 
There her father, called upon with signs of wonder^ 
Passed with tenderest words away by ways 
unknown, 
Not by sea-storm stricken down, nor touched of 
thunder, 
^ To the dark benign deep underworld, alone. 

Third of three that ruled in Athens, kings with 
sceptral song for stafF, [£>. 3 

Gladdest heart that God gave ever milk and wine 
of thought to quafF, 

Clearest eye that lightened ever to the broad 
lip's lordliest laugh. 

Praise be thine as theirs whose tragic brows the 
loftier leaf engirds 

For the live and lyric lightning of thy honey- 
hearted words. 

Soft like sunny dewy wings of clouds and bright 
as crying of birds ; 

Full of all sweet rays and notes that make of . 
earth and air and sea 

One great light and sound of laughter from one 
great God's heart, to be 

Sign and semblance of the gladness of man's life 
where men breathe free. 



20 0elecc Tjl^ttM of ^^toinbume 

With no Loxian sound obscure God uttered 

once, and all time heard, 
All the soul of Athens, all the soul of England, 

in that word : 
Rome arose the second child of freedom : north- 
ward rose the third. 
Ere her Boreal dawn came kindling seas afoam 

and fields of snow, 
Yet again, while Europe groaned and grovelled, 

shone like suns aglow 
Doria splendid over Genoa, Venice bright with 

Dandolo. 
Dead was Hellas, but Ausonia by the light of 

dead men's deeds 
Rose and walked awhile alive, though mocked 

as whom the fen-fire leads 
By the creed-wrought faith of faithless souls that 

mock their doubts with creeds. 
Dead are these, and man is risen again : and 

haply now the three 
Yet coequal and triune may stand in story, 

marked as free 
By the token of the washing of the waters of 

the sea. 
Athens first of all earth's kindred many-tongued 

and many-kinned 
Had the sea to friend and comfort, and for kins- 
man had the wind : 



SMftM 21 

She that bare Columbus next : then she that 

made her spoil of Ind. 
She that hears not what man's rage but only 

what the sea-wind saith : 
She that turned Spain's ships to cloud-wrack at 

the blasting of her breath, 
By her strengths of strong-souled children and of 

strong winds done to death. 
North and south the Great King's galleons went 

in Persian wise : and here 
She, with ^schylean music on her lips that 

laughed back fear. 
In the face of Time's grey godhead shook the 

splendour of her spear. 
Fair as Athens then with foot upon her foe- 
man's front, and strong 
Even as Athens for redemption of the world 

from sovereign wrong. 
Like as Athens crowned she stood before the 

sun with crowning song. 
All the world is theirs with whom is freedom : 

first of all the free. 
Blest are they whom song has crowned and 

clothed with blessing : these as we, 
These alone have part in spirit with the sun that 

crowns the sea. 



22 ^lect pomtf of ^inbume 

THE ARMADA 

1588: 1888 

I 

I 
England, mother born of seamen, daughter 

fostered of the sea, 
Mother more beloved than all who bear not all 
their children free, 
Reared and nursed and crowned and cherished 

by the sea-wind and the sun, 
Sweetest land and strongest, face most fair 
and mightiest heart in one. 
Stands not higher than when the centuries 
known of earth were less by three. 
When the strength that struck the whole 
world pale fell back from hers undone. 

• 

n 

At her feet were the heads of her foes bowed 

down, and the strengths of the storm of 

them stayed. 
And the hearts that were touched not with 

mercy with terror were touched and 

amazed and afFrayed : 
Yea, hearts that had never been molten with 

pity were molten with fear as with flame. 



tD^e jantiaiNi 23 

And the priests of the Godhead whose temple is 

hell, and his heart is of iron and fire. 
And the swordsmen that served and the seamen 

that sped them, whom peril could tame 

not or tire. 
Were as foam on the winds of the waters of 

England which tempest can tire not or 

tame. 

m 

They were girded about with thunder, and light- 
ning came forth of the rage of their 

strength. 
And the measure that measures the wings of 

the storm was the breadth of their force 

and the length : 
And the name of their might was Invincible, 

covered and clothed with the terror of 

God; 
With his wrath were they winged, with his love 

were they fired, with the speed of his 

winds were they shod ; 
With his soul were they filled, in his trust were 

they comforted : grace was upon them 

as night. 
And faith as the blackness of darkness : the 

fume of their balefires was fair in his 

sight. 



24 fs^Utt )^etii0 of $^iiiinlmme 

The reek of them sweet as a savour of myrrh 

in his nostrils : the world that he made. 
Theirs was it by gift of his servants : the wind, 

if they spake in his name, was afraid. 
And the sun was a shadow before it, the stars 

were astonished with fear of it : fire 
Went up to them, fed with men living, and lit 

of men's hands for a shrine or a pyre ; 
And the east and the west wind scattered their 

ashes abroad, that his name should be 

blest 
Of the tribes of the chosen whose blessings are 

curses from uttermost east unto west. 



II 

I 
Hell for Spain, and heaven for England, — God 

to God, and man to man, — 
Met confronted, light with darkness, life with 
death : since time began. 
Never earth nor sea beheld so great a stake 

before them set. 
Save when Athens hurled back Asia from the 
lists wherein they met; 
Never since the sands of ages through the glass 
of history ran 
Saw the sun in heaven a lordlier day than 
this that lights us yet. 



II 

For the light that abides upon England, the 

glory that rests on her godlike name, 
The pride that is love and the love that is faith, 

a perfume dissolved in flame, 
Took fire from the dawn of the fierce July 

when fleets were scattered as foam 
And squadrons as flakes of spray ; when galleon 

and galliass that shadowed the sea 
Were swept from her waves like shadows that 

pass with the clouds they fell from, and 

she 
Laughed loud to the wind as it gave to her 

keeping the glories of Spain and Rome. 

Ill 

Three hundred summers have fallen as leaves 

by the storms in their season thinned. 
Since northward the war-ships of Spain came 

sheer up the way of the south-west 

wind: 
Where the citadel cliffs of England are flanked 

with bastions of serpentine. 
Far off to the windward loomed their hulls, an 

hundred and twenty-nine. 
All filled full of the war, full-fraught with battle 

and charged with bale ; 
Then store-ships weighted with cannon; and 

all were an hundred and fifty sail. 



26 ^rlm ]porm0 of ^ininlmme 

The measureless menace of darkness anhungered 
with hope to prevail upon light, 

The shadow of death made substance, the pre- 
sent and visible spirit of night, 

Came, shaped as a waxing or waning moon that 
rose with the fall of day. 

To the channel where couches the Lion in guard 
of the gate of the lustrous bay. 

Fair England, sweet as the sea that shields her, 
and pure as the sea from stain. 

Smiled, hearing hardly for scorn that stirred her 
the menace of saintly Spain. 

Ill 

I 

*'They that ride over ocean wide with hempen 

bridle and horse of tree," 
How shall they in the darkening day of wrath 

and anguish and fear go free ? 
How shall these that have curbed the seas not 

feel his bridle who made the sea ? 

God shall bow them and break them now : for 
what is man in the Lord God's sight ? 

Fear shall shake them, and shame shall break, 
and all the noon of their pride be night : 

These that sinned shall the ravening wind of 
doom bring under, and judgment smite. 



tEUft jarttiaiHi 27 

England broke from her neck the yoke, and 
rent the fetter, and mocked the rod : 

Shrines of old that she decked with gold she 
turned to dust, to the dust she trod : 

What is she, that the wind and sea should fight 
beside her, and war with God ? 

Lo, the cloud of his ships that crowd her chan- 
nel's inlet with storm sublime, 

Darker far than the tempests are that sweep the 
skies of her northmost clime ; 

Huge and dense as the walls that fence the se» 
cret darkness of unknown time. 

Mast on mast as a tower goes past, and sail by 
sail as a cloud's wing spread ; 

Fleet by fleet, as the throngs whose feet keep 
time with death in his dance of dread ; 

Galleons dark as the helmsman's bark of old 
that ferried to hell the dead. 

Squadrons proud as their lords, and loud with 
tramp of soldiers and chant of priests ; 

Slaves there told by the thousandfold, made fast 
in bondage as herded beasts ; 

Lords and slaves that the sweet free waves shall 
feed on, satiate with funeral feasts. 



28 Select Tj^tms of &toin\mmt 

Nay, not so shall it be, they know ; their priests 
have' said it; can priesthood lie? 

God shall keep them, their God shall sleep not : 
peril and evil shall pass them by : 

Nay, for these are his children ; seas and winds 
shall bid not his children die. 

U 

So they boast them, the monstrous host whose 
menace mocks at the dawn : and here 

They that wait at the wild sea's gate, and watch 
the darkness of doom draw near. 

How shall they in their evil day sustain the 
strength of their hearts for fear ? 

Full July in the fervent sky sets forth her twen- 
tieth of changing morns : 

Winds fall mild that of late waxed wild : no pre- 
sage whispers or wails or warns : 

Far to west on the bland sea's breast a sailing 
crescent uprears her horns. 

Seven wide miles the serene sea smiles between 
them stretching from rim to rim : 

Soft they shine, but a darker sign should bid not 
hope or belief wax dim : 

God's are these men, and not the sea's : their 
trust is set not on her but him. 



XB^Ift jarttialHi 29 

God's ? but who is the God whereto the prayers 
and incense of these men rise ? 

What is he, that the wind and sea should fear 
him, quelled by his sunbright eyes ? 

What, that men should return again, and hail 
him Lord of the servile skies ? 

Hell's own flame at his heavenly name leaps 
higher and laughs, and its gulfs rejoice : 

Plague and death from his baneful breath take 
life and lighten, and praise his choice : 

Chosen are they to devour for prey the tribes 
that hear not and fear his voice. 

Ay, but we that the wind and sea gird round 
with shelter of storms and waves 

Know not him that ye worship, grim as dreams 
that quicken from dead men's graves : 

God is one with the sea, the sun, the land that 
nursed us, the love that saves. 

Love whose heart is in ours, and part of all 
things noble and all things fair; 

Sweet and free as the circling sea, sublime and 
kind as the fostering air ; 

Pure of shame as is England's name, whose 
crowns to come are as crowns that were. 



30 9s^Utt ]porm0 of j^toinlmme 

IV 

I 

But the Lord of darkness, the God whose love 

is a flaming iire, 
The master whose mercy fulfils wide hell till its 

torturers tire, 
He shall surely have heed of his servants who 

serve him for love, not hire. 

They shall fetter the wing of the wind whose 
pinions are plumed with foam : 

For now shall thy horn be exalted, and now 
shall thy bolt strike home ; 

Yea, now shall thy kingdom come, Lord God 
of the priests of Rome. 

They shall cast thy curb on the waters, and 
bridle the waves of the sea : 

Then shall say to her. Peace, be still : and still- 
ness and peace shall be : 

And the winds and the storms shall hear them, 
and tremble, and worship thee. 

Thy breath shall darken the morning, and wither 

the mounting sun ; 
And the daysprings, frozen and fettered, shall 

know thee, and cease to run ; 



The heart of the world shall feel thee, and die, 
and thy will be done. 

The spirit of man that would sound thee, and 

search out causes of things, 
Shall shrink and subside and praise thee : and 

wisdom, with plume-plucked wings. 
Shall cower at thy feet and confess thee, that 

none may fathom thy springs. 

The fountains of song that await but the wind 

of an April to be 
To burst the bonds of the winter, and speak 

with the sound of a sea. 
The blast of thy mouth shall quench them : and 

song shall be only of thee. 

The days that are dead shall quicken, the sea- 
sons that were shall return ; 

And the streets and the pastures of England, the 
woods that burgeon and yearn. 

Shall be whitened with ashes of women and 
children and men that burn. 

For the mother shall burn with the babe sprung 

forth of her womb in fire. 
And bride with bridegroom, and brother with 

sister, and son with sire ; 



32 Select |^oetii0 of ^ininlmme 

And the noise of the flames shall be sweet in 
thine ears as the sound of a lyre. 

Yea, so shall thy kingdom be stablished, and so 

shall the signs of it be : 
And the world shall know, and the wind shall 

speak, and the sun shall see, 
That these are the works of thy servants, whose 

works bear witness to thee. 

II 

But the dusk of the day falls fruitless, whose 
lights should have lit them on : 

Sails flash through the gloom to shoreward, 
eclipsed as the sun that shone : 

And the west wind wakes with dawn, and the 
hope that was here is gone. 

Around they wheel and around, two knots to the 

Spaniard's one, 
The wind-swift warriors of England, who shoot 

as with shafts of the sun. 
With fourfold shots for the Spaniard's, that spare 

not till day be done. 

And the wind with the sundown sharpens, and 

hurtles the ships to the lee. 
And Spaniard on Spaniard smites, and shatters, 

and yields ; and we. 



XB^Ift jairmaDa 33 

Ere battle begin, stand lords of the battle, 
acclaimed of the sea. 

And the day sweeps round to the nightward ; 

and heavy and hard the waves 
Roll in on the herd of the hurtling galleons; 

and masters and slaves 
Reel blind in the grasp of the dark strong wind 

that shall dig their graves. 

For the sepulchres hollowed and shaped of the 
wind in the swerve of the seas, 

The graves that gape for their pasture, and 
laugh, thrilled through by the breeze. 

The sweet soft merciless waters, await and are 
fain of these. 

As the hiss of a Python heaving in menace of 

doom to be 
They hear through the clear night round them, 

whose hours are as clouds that flee. 
The whisper of tempest sleeping, the heave and 

the hiss of the sea. 

But faith is theirs, and with faith are they girded 

and helmed and shod : 
Invincible are they, almighty, elect for a sword 

and a rod ; 



34 f^elect |^orm0 of ^ininlmntr 

Invincible even as their God is omnipotent, 
infinite, God. 

In him is their strength, who have sworn that 
his glory shall wax not dim : 

In his name are their war-ships hallowed as 
mightiest of all that swim : 

The men that shall cope with these, and conquer, 
shall cast out him. 

In him is the trust of their hearts ; the desire of 

their eyes is he ; 
The light of their ways, made lightning for men 

that would fain be free : 
Earth's hosts are with them, and with them is 

heaven : but with us is the sea. 



I 

And a day and a night pass over ; 

And the heart of their chief swells high ; 
For England, the warrior, the rover, 
Whose banners on all winds fly. 
Soul-stricken, he saith, by the shadow of death, 
holds off him, and draws not nigh. 

And the wind and the dawn together 
Make in from the gleaming east : 



tETlie jarttialHi 35 

And fain of the wild glad weather 

As famine is fain of feast. 
And fain of the fight, forth sweeps in its 
might the host of the Lord's high priest. 

And lightly before the breeze 

The ships of his foes take wing : 
Are they scattered, the lords of the seas? 
Are they broken, the foes of the king ? 
And ever now higher as a mounting fire the 
hopes of the Spaniard spring. 

And a windless night comes down : 
And a breezeless morning, bright 
With promise of praise to crown 
The close of the crowning fight, 
Leaps up as the foe's heart leaps, and glows 
with lustrous rapture of light. 

And stinted of gear for battle 

The ships of the sea's folk lie, 
Unwarlike, herded as cattle. 
Six miles from the foeman's eye 
That fastens as flame on the sight of them tame 
and oiFenceless, and ranged as to die. 

Surely the souls in them quail, 

They are stricken and withered at heart. 



1 



36 ^Im l^omttf of ^ininbunte 

When in on them, sail by sail, 
Fierce marvels of monstrous art, 
Tower darkening on tower till the sea-winds 
cower crowds down as to hurl them 
apart. 

And the windless weather is kindly. 
And comforts the host in these ; 
And their hearts are uplift in them blindly. 
And blindly they boast at ease 
That the next day's fight shall exalt them, and 
smite with destruction the lords of the 
seas. 

U 

And lightly the proud hearts prattle. 
And lightly the dawn draws nigh. 
The dawn of the doom of the battle 
When these shall falter and fly; 
No day more great in the roll of fate filled ever 
with fire the sky. 

To fightward they go as to feastward. 
And the tempest of ships that drive 
Sets eastward ever and eastward. 
Till closer they strain and strive; 
And the shots that rain on the hulls of Spain 
are as thunders afire and alive. 



XB^IftSUmanL 37 

And about them the blithe sea smiles 

And flashes to windward and lee 
Round capes and headlands and isles 
That heed not if war there be ; 
Round Sark, round Wight, green jewels of light 
in the ring of the golden sea. 

But the men that within them abide 

Are stout of spirit and stark 
As rocks that repel the tide. 
As day that repels the dark ; 
And the light bequeathed from their swords 
unsheathed shines lineal on Wight and 
on Sark. 

And eastward the storm sets ever, 

The storm of the sails that strain 
And follow and close and sever 
And lose and return and gain ; 
And English thunder divides in sunder the holds 
of the ships of Spain. 

Southward to Calais, appalled 

And astonished, the vast fleet veers ; 
And the skies are shrouded and palled. 
But the moonless midnight hears 
And sees how swift on them drive and drift 
strange flames that the darkness fears. 



38 ^Im Ij^ma ot ^ininlmme 

They fly through the night from shoreward, 

Heart-stricken till morning break. 
And ever to scourge them forward 

Drives down on them England's Drake, 
And hurls them in as they hurtle and spin and 
stagger, with storm to wake. 

VI 



And now is their time come on them. For 

eastward they drift and reel. 
With the shallows of Flanders ahead, with 

destruction and havoc at heel. 
With God for their comfort only, the God 

whom they serve ; and here 
Their Lord, of his great loving-kindness, may 

revel and make good cheer j 
Though ever his lips wax thirstier with drink- 
ing, and hotter the lusts in him swell ; 
For he feeds the thirst that consumes him with 

blood, and his winepress fumes with the 

reek of hell. 

II 

Fierce noon beats hard on the battle; the 
galleons that loom to the lee 

Bow down, heel over, uplifting their shelter- 
less hulls from the sea : 



tE^lft jSnttalMi 39 

From scuppers aspirt with blood, from gims 
dismounted and dumb, 

The signs of the doom they looked for, the 
loud mute witnesses come. 

They press with sunset to seaward for com- 
fort : and shall not they find it there i 
O servants of God most high, shall his winds not 
pass you by, and his waves not spare ? 

Ill 
The 4vings of the south-west wind are widened ; 

the breath of his fervent lips. 
More keen than a sword's edge, fiercer than 

fire, falls full on the plunging ships. 
The pilot is he of their northward flight, their 

stay and their steersman he; 
A helmsman clothed with the tempest, and 

girdled with strength to constrain the sea. 
And the host of them trembles and quails, 

caught fast in his hand as a bird in the 

toils i 
For the wrath and the joy that fulfil him are 

mightier than man's, whom he slays and 

spoils. 
And vainly, with heart divided in sunder, and 

labour of wavering will, 
The lord of their host takes counsel with hope 

if haply their star shine still. 



40 ^^Irct ^otmg of fstoinlntcm 

If haply some light be left them of chance to 

renew and redeem the fray ; 
But the will of the black south-wester is lord 

of the councils of war to-day. 
One only spirit it quells not, a splendour un- 

darkened of chance or time ; 
Be the praise of his foes with Oquendo for ever, 

a name as a star sublime. 
But here what aid in a hero's heart, what help 

in his hand may be ? 
For ever the dark wind whitens and blackens 

the hollows and heights of the sea. 
And galley by galley, divided and desolate, 

founders ; and none takes heed. 
Nor foe nor friend, if they perish ; forlorn, cast 

ofF in their uttermost need. 
They sink in the whelm of the waters, as 

pebbles by children from shoreward 

hurled. 
In the North Sea's waters that end not, nor 

know they a bourn but the bourn of the 

world. 
Past many a secure unavailable harbour, and 

many a loud stream's mouth. 
Past Humber and Tees and Tyne and Tweed, 

they fly, scourged on from the south. 
And torn by the scourge of the storm-wind that 

smites as a harper smites on a lyre. 



And consumed of the storm as the sacrifice 

loved of their God is consumed with 

fire, 
And devoured of the darkness as men that are 

slain in the fires of his love are de- 
voured, 
And deflowered of their lives by the storms, as 

by priests is the spirit of life deflowered. 
For the wind, of its godlike mercy, relents not, 

and hounds them ahead to the north. 
With English hunters at heel, till now is the 

herd of them past the Forth, 
All huddled and hurtled seaward ; and now need 

none wage war upon these. 
Nor huntsmen follow the quarry whose fall is 

the pastime sought of the seas. 
Day upon day upon day confounds them, with 

measureless mists that swell, 
With drift of rains everlasting and dense as the 

fumes of ascending hell. 
The visions of priest and of prophet beholding 

his enemies bruised of his rod 
Beheld but the likeness of this that is fallen on 

the faithful, the friends of God. 
Northward, and northward, and northward they 

stagger and shudder and swerve and flit. 
Dismantled of masts and of yards, with sails by 

the fangs of the storm-wind split. 



} 



42 Select :poetti0 of ^totnlmmr 

But north of the headland whose name is Wrath, 

by the wrath or the ruth of the sea, 
They are swept or sustained to the westward, 

and drive through the rollers aloof to 

the lee. 
Some strive yet northward for Iceland, and 

perish : but some through the storm- 
hewn straits 
sunder the Shetlands and Orkneys are 

borne of the breath which is God's or 

fate's : 
And some, by the dawn of September, at last 

give thanks as for stars that smile. 
For the winds have swept them to shelter and 

sight of the cliffs of a Catholic isle. 
Though many the fierce rocks feed on, and 

many the merciless heretic slays. 
Yet some that have laboured to land with their 

treasure are trustful, and give God praise. 
And the kernes of murderous Ireland, athirst 

with a greed everlasting of blood, 
Unslakable ever with slaughter and spoil, rage 

down as a ravening flood. 
To slay and to flay of their shining apparel their 

brethren whom shipwreck spares ; 
Such faith and such mercy, such love and such 

manhood, such hands and such hearts 

are theirs. 



WlftSUtXIsm 43 

Short shrift to her foes gives England, but 

shorter doth Ireland to friends ; and 

worse 
Fare they that came with a blessing on treason 

than they that come with a curse. 
Hacked, harried, and mangled of axes and skenes, 

three thousand naked and dead 
Bear witness of Catholic Ireland, what sons of 

what sires at her breasts are bred. 
Winds are pitiful, waves are merciful, tempest 

and storm are kind : 
The waters that smite may spare, and the thunder 

is deaf, and the lightning is blind : 
Of these perchance at his need may a man, 

though they know it not, yet find grace ; 
But grace, if another be hardened against him^ 

he gets not at this man's face. 
For his ear that hears and his eye that sees the 

wreck and the wail of men. 
And his heart that relents not within him, but 

hungers, are like as the wolf's in his 

den. 
Worthy are these to worship their master, the 

murderous Lord of lies, 
Who hath given to the pontiff his servant the 

keys of the pit and the keys of the skies. 
Wild famine and red-shod rapine are cruel, and 

bitter with blood are their feasts ; 



44 Select :poetti0 of ^toinbttme 

But fiercer than famine and redder than rapine 
the hands and the hearts of priests. 

God, God bade these to the battle; and here, 
on a land by his servants trod, 

They perish, a lordly blood-offering, subdued by 
the hands of the servants of God. 

These also were fed of his priests with faith, 
with the milk of his word and the 
wine; 

These too are fulfilled with the spirit of dark- 
ness that guided their quest divine. 

And here, cast up from the ravening sea on the 
mild land's merciful breast. 

This comfort they find of their fellows in wor- 
ship; this guerdon is theirs of their 
quest. 

Death was captain, and doom was pilot, and 
darkness the chart of their way ; 

Night and hell had in charge and in keeping the 
host of the foes of day. 

Invincible, vanquished, impregnable, shattered, 
a sign to her foes of fear, 

A sign to the world and the stars of laughter, 
the fleet of the Lord lies here. 

Nay, for none may declare the place of the ruin 
wherein she lies ; 

Nay, for none hath beholden the grave whence 
never a ghost shall rise. 



Wlft SUmam 45 

The fleet of the foemen of England hath found 
not one but a thousand graves ; 

And he that shall number and name them shall 
number by name and by tale the waves. 



VII 



Sixtus, Pope of the Church whose hope takes 
flight for heaven to dethrone the sun, 

Philip, king that wouldst turn our spring to 
winter, blasted, appalled, undone. 

Prince and priest, let a mourner's feast give 
thanks to God for your conquest won. 

England's heel is upon you : kneel, O priest, 
O prince, in the dust, and cry, 

** Lord, why thus ? art thou wroth with us whose 
faith was great in thee, God most high ? 

Whence is this, that the serpent's hiss derides 
us ? Lord, can thy pledged word lie i 

^^ God of hell, are its flames that swell quenched 
now for ever, extinct and dead ? 

Who shall fear thee? or who shall hear the 
word thy servants who feared thee said ? 

Lord, art thou as the dead gods now, whose 
arm is shortened, whose rede is read ? 



46 Select Tf^tma of ^ttitnlmmr 

** Yet we thought it was not for nought thy word 
was given us, to guard and guide : 

Yet we deemed that they had not dreamed who 
put their trust in thee. Hast thou lied ? 

God our Lord, was the sacred sword we drew 
not drawn on thy Church's side ? 

^ England hates thee as hell's own gates ; and 

England triumphs, and Rome bows 

down : 
England mocks at thee ; England's rocks cast 

oflF thy servants to drive and drown : 
England loathes thee; and fame betroths and 

plights with England her faith for crown. 

^^ Spain clings fast to thee ; Spain, aghast with 
anguish, cries to thee ; where art thou ? 

Spain puts trust in thee ; lo, the dust that soils 
and darkens her prostrate brow ! 

Spain is true to thy service ; who shall raise up 
Spain for thy service now ? 

" Who shall praise thee, if none may raise thy 
servants up, nor affright thy foes ? 

Winter wanes, and the woods and plains forget 
the likeness of storms and snows : 

So shall fear of thee fade even here : and what 
shall follow thee no man knows." 



Wlft j3ntiaim 47 

Lords of night, who would breathe your blight 

on April's morning and August's noon, 
God your Lord, the condemned, the abhorred, 

sinks hellward, smitten with deathlike 

swoon : 
Death's own dart in his hateful heart now thrills, 

and night shall receive him soon. 

God the Devil, thy reign of revel is here for 

ever eclipsed and fled : 
God the Liar, everlasting fire lays hold at last 

on thee, hand and head : 
God the Accurst, the consuming thirst that 

burns thee never shall here be fed. 

II 

England, queen of the waves whose green in- 
violate girdle enrings thee round. 

Mother fair as the morning, where is now the 
place of thy foemen found ? 

Still the sea that salutes us free proclaims them 
stricken, acclaims thee crowned. 

Times may change, and the skies grow strange 
with signs of treason and fraud and fear : 

Foes in union of strange communion may rise 
against thee from far and near : 

Sloth and greed on thy strength may feed as 
cankers waxing from year to year. 



48 Select If^tme of ^iDintmme 

Yet, though treason and fierce unreason should 
league and lie and defame and smite. 

We that know thee, how far below thee the 
hatred burns of the sons of night. 

We that love thee, behold above thee the witness 
written of life in light. 

Life that shines from thee shows forth signs that 
none may read not but eyeless foes : 

Hate, born blind, in his abject mind grows hope- 
ful now but as madness grows : 

Love, born wise, with exultant eyes adores thy 
glory, beholds and glows. 

Truth is in thee, and none may win thee to lie, 

forsaking the face of truth : 
Freedom lives by the grace she gives thee, bom 

again from thy deathless youth : 
Faith should fail, and the world turn pale, wert 

thou the prey of the serpent's tooth. 

Greed and fraud, unabashed, unawed, may strive 

to sting thee at heel in vain : 
Craft and fear and mistrust may leer and mourn 

and murmur and plead and plain : 
Thou art thou : and thy sunbright brow is hers 

that blasted the strength of Spain. 



Mother, mother beloved, none other could claim 
in place of thee England's place : 

Earth bears none that beholds the sun so pure 
of record, so clothed with grace : 

Dear our mother, nor son nor brother is thine, 
as strong or as fair of face. 

How shalt thou be abased ? or how shall fear 
take hold of thy heart ? of thine, 

England, maiden immortal, laden with charge of 
life and with hopes divine ? 

Earth shall wither, when eyes turned hither be- 
hold not light in her darkness shine. 

England, none that is bom thy son, and lives, 

by grace of thy glory, free. 
Lives and yearns not at heart and burns with 

hope to serve as he worships thee ; 
None may sing thee : the sea-wind's wing beats 

down our songs as it hails the sea. 



50 ^dm :|^att0 o( $^inlrame 

ODE ON THE PROCLAMATION OF 
THE FRENCH REPUBLIC 

alKivov oitKivov ctir^, rh 8* kl vutdrw 
STROPHE I 

With songs and crying and sounds of acclama- 
tions, 
Lo, the flame risen, the fire that falls in 
showers ! 
Hark ; for the word is out among the nations : 

Look ; for the light is up upon the hours : 
O fears, O shames, O many tribulations. 

Yours were all yesterdays, but this day ours. 
Strong were your bonds linked fast with lamen- 
tations. 
With groans and tears built into walls and 
towers ; 
Strong were your works and wonders of high 
stations. 
Your forts blood-based, and rampires of your 
powers : 
Lo now the last of divers desolations, 

The hand of time, that gathers hosts like 
flowers ; 
Time, that fills up and pours out generations ; 
Time, at whose breath confounded empire 
cowers. 



^ift fttndf iUpublic 51 

STR. 2 

What are these moving in the dawn's red 

gloom ? 
What is she waited on by dread and doom, 
111 ministers of morning, bondmen born of 

night ? 
If that head veiled and bowed be morning's 

head, 
If she come walking between doom and dread. 
Who shall rise up with song and dance before 

her sight ? 

Are not the night's dead heaped about her 
feet ? 

Is not death swollen, and slaughter full of 
meat ? 
What, is their feast a bride-feast, where men 
sing and dance ? 

A bitter, a bitter bride-song and a shrill 

Should the house raise that such bride- 
followers fill, 
Wherein defeat weds ruin, and takes for bride- 
bed France. 

For nineteen years deep shame and sore desire 
Fed from men's hearts with hungering fangs 
of fire. 



52 Select )pontt0 of fstoinbamt 

And hope fell sick with famine for the food of 
change. 
Now is change come, but bringing funeral urns ; 
Now is day nigh, but the dawn blinds and 
burns ; 
Now time long dumb hath language, but the 
tongue is strange. 

We that have seen her not our whole lives 

long. 
We to whose ears her dirge was cradle-song. 
The dirge men sang who laid in earth her living 
head. 
Is it by such light that we live to see 
Rise, with rent hair and raiment, Liberty ? 
Does her grave open only to restore her dead ? 

Ah, was it this we looked for, looked and 

prayed. 
This hour that treads upon the prayers we 

made. 
This ravening hour that breaks down good and 

ill alike ? 
Ah, was it thus we thought to see her and 

hear. 
The one love indivisible and dear ? 
Is it her head that hands which strike doi^n 

wrong must strike ? 



tE^lft fttn^ teupubUt S3 

STR. 3 

Where is hope, and promise where, in all these 

things, 
Shocks of strength with strength, and jar of 

hurtling kings ? 
Who of all men, who will show us any good i 
Shall these lightnings of bUnd battles give men 

light ? 
Where is freedom ? who will bring us in her 

sight. 
That have hardly seen her footprint where 

she stood ? 

STR. 4 

Who is this that rises red with wounds and 
splendid. 
All her breast and brow made beautiful with 
scars. 
Burning bare as naked daylight, undefended. 
In her hands for spoils her splintered prison- 
bars. 
In her eyes the light and fire of long pain ended, 
In her lips a song as of the morning stars ? 

STR. 5 

O torn out of thy trance, 
O deathless, O my Francei 



54 Select f^oemtf of ^tDittlmme 

O many-wounded mother, O redeemed to reign ! 

O rarely sweet and bitter 

The bright brief tears that glitter 
On thine unclosing eyelids, proud of their own 
pain; 

The beautiful brief tears 

That wash the stains of years 
White as the names immortal of thy chosen and 
slain. 

O loved so much so long, 

O smitten with such wrong, 
O purged at last and perfect without spot or 
stain. 

Light of the light of man, 

Reborn republican. 
At last, O first Republic, hailed in heaven again ! 

Out of the obscene eclipse 

Rerisen, with burning lips 
To witness for us if we looked for thee in vain. 

STR. 6 

Thou wast the light whereby men saw 
Light, thou the trumpet of the law 

Proclaiming manhood to mankind ; 

And what if all these years were blind 
And shameful ? Hath the sun a flaw 
Because one hour hath power to draw 

Mist round him wreathed as links to bind ? 



WIft iFrntcIi ttetmbUc 55 

And what if now keen anguish drains 
The very wellspring of thy veins 

And very spirit of thy breath ? 
The life outlives them and disdains ; 
The sense which makes the soul remains, 

And blood of thought which travaileth 
To bring forth hope with procreant pains. 
O thou that satest bound in chains 
Between thine hills and pleasant plains 

As whom his own soul vanquisheth, 
Held in the bonds of his own thought, 
Whence very death can take off nought, 

Nor sleep, with bitterer dreams than death, 
What though thy thousands at thy knees 
Lie thick as grave-worms feed on these. 
Though thy green fields and joyous places 
Are populous with blood-blackening faces 

And wan limbs eaten by the sun ? 
Better an end of all men's races. 

Better the world's whole work were done. 
And life wiped out of all our traces. 

And there were left to time not one. 
Than such as these that fill thy graves 
Should sow in slaves the seed of slaves. 

ANTISTROPHE I 

Not of thy sons, O mother many-wounded. 
Not of thy sons are slaves ingraffed and grown. 



56 fstlttt poemtf at ^toinlmme 

Was it not thine, the fire whence light re- 
bounded 
From kingdom on rekindling kingdom thrown. 
From hearts confirmed on tyrannies confounded. 
From earth on heaven, fire mightier than his 
own? 
Not thine the breath wherewith time's clarion 
sounded. 
And all the terror in the trumpet blown ? 
The voice whereat the thunders stood astounded 

As at a new sound of a God unknown ? 
And all the seas and shores within them bounded 
Shook at the strange speech of thy lips 
alone. 
And all the hills of heaven, the storm-sur- 
rounded, 
Trembled, and all the night sent forth a 
groan. 

ANT. 2 

What hast thou done that such an hour should 
be 

More than another clothed with blood to 
thee? 
Thou hast seen many a bloodred hour before 
this one. 

What art thou that thy lovers should mis- 
doubt ? 



wife ftmtHf KepubUc 57 

What is this hour that it should cast hope 
out? 
If hope turn back and fall from thee, what hast 
thou done ? 
Thou hast done ill against thine own soul ; 

yea, 
Thine own soul hast thou slain and burnt 
away. 
Dissolving it with poison into foul thin fume. 
Thine own life and creation of thy fate 
Thou hast set thy hand to unmake and dis- 
create ; 
And now thy slain soul rises between dread and 
doom. 

Yea, this is she that comes between them 
led; 

That veiled head is thine own soul's buried 
head. 
The head that was as morning's in the whole 
world's sight. 

These wounds are deadly on thee, but dead- 
lier 

Those wounds the ravenous poison left on 
her; 
How shall her weak hands hold thy weak hands 
up to fight i 



58 f^tUta poemtf of f^fninburne 

Ah, but her fiery eyes, her eyes are these 
That, gazing, make thee shiver to the knees 
And the blood leap within thee, and the $trong 
joy rise. 
What, doth her sight yet make thine heart to 

dance ? 
O France, O freedom, O the soul of France, 
Are ye then quickened, gazing in each other's 
eyes ? 

Ah, and her words, the words wherewith she 

sought thee 
Sorrowing, and bare in hand the robe she 

wrought thee 
To wear when soul and body were again made 

one, 
And fairest among women, and a bride. 
Sweet-voiced to sing the bridegroom to her side. 
The spirit of man, the bridegroom brighter than 

the sun ! 

ANT. 3 

Who shall help me ? who shall take me by the 

hand ? 
Who shall teach mine eyes to see, my feet to 

stand. 
Now my foes have stripped and wounded me 

by night ? 



WIft ShctnOf ttftmbUc 59 

Who shall heal me ? who shall come to take 

my part ? 
Who shall set me as a seal upon his heart, 
As a seal upon his arm made bare for fight ? 

ANT. 4 

If thou know not, O thou fairest among women. 
If thou see not where the signs of him abide, 
Lift thine eyes up to the light that stars grow 
dim in. 
To the morning whence he comes to take 
thy side. 
None but he can bear the light that love wraps 
him in. 
When he comes on earth to take himself 
a bride. 

ANT. 5 

Light of light, name of names. 

Whose shadows are live flames. 
The soul that moves the wings of worlds upon 
their way : 

Life, spirit, blood and breath 

In time and change and death 
Substant through strength and weakness, ardour 
and decay ; 

Lord of the lives of lands. 

Spirit of man, whose hands 



6o fstlttt pottttf of ^tDinbunte 

Weave the web through wherein man's centu- 
ries fall as prey ; 
That art within our will 
Power to make, save, and kill, 
Knowledge and choice, to take extremities and 
weigh ; 
In the soul's hand to smite 
Strength, in the soul's eye sight ; 
That to the soul art even as is the soul to 
clay; 
Now to this people be 
Love ; come, to set them free, 
With feet that tread the night, with eyes that 
sound the day. 

ANT. 6 

Thou that wast on their fathers dead 
As effluent God eiRised and shed. 

Heaven to be handled, hope made flesh. 

Break for them now time's iron mesh ; 
Give them thyself for hand and head. 
Thy breath for life, thy love for bread. 

Thy thought for spirit to refresh. 
Thy bitterness to pierce and sting. 
Thy sweetness for a healing spring. 

Be to them knowledge, strength, life, light. 
Thou to whose feet the centuries cling 
And in the wide warmth of thy wing 



tEP^e ifrmcli KepubUc 6i 

Seek room and rest as birds by night, 
O thou the kingless people's king, 
To whom the lips of silence sing, 
Called by thy name of thanksgiving 

Freedom, and by thy name of might 
Justice, and by thy secret name 
Love ; the same need is on the same 

Men, be the same God in their sight ! 
From this their hour of bloody tears 
Their praise goes up into thine ears. 
Their bruised lips clothe thy name with praises. 
The song of thee their crushed voice raises. 

Their grief seeks joy for psalms to borrow. 
With tired feet seeks her through time's mazes 

Where each day's blood leaves pale the mor- 
row 
And from their eyes in thine there gazes 

A spirit other far than sorrow — 
A soul triumphal, white and whole 
And single, that salutes thy soul. 

EPODE 

All the lights of the sweet heaven that sing 

together. 
All the years of the green earth that bare 

man free ; 
Rays and lightings of the fierce or tender 

weather. 



62 ^elm )poem0 of ^tDinbume 

Heights and lowlands, wastes and headlands 
of the sea, 
Dawns and sunset, hours that hold the world in 
tether. 
Be our witnesses and seals of things to be. 
Lo the mother, the Republic universal. 

Hands that hold time fast, hands feeding men 
with might, 
Lips that sing the song of the earth, that make 
rehearsal 
Of all seasons, and the sway of day with 
night. 
Eyes that see as from a mountain the dis- 
persal. 
The huge ruin of things evil, and the flight ; 
Large exulting limbs, and bosom godlike 
moulded 
Where the man-child hangs, and womb 
wherein he lay ; 
Very life that could it die would leave the soul 
dead. 
Face whereat all fears and forces flee away. 
Breath that moves the world as winds a flower- 
bell folded. 
Feet that trampling the gross darkness beat 
out day. 
In the hour of pain and pity. 
Sore spent, a wounded city. 



wife ffxtntif l&tptMk 63 

Her foster-child seeks to her, stately where she 
stands ; 
In the utter hour of woes. 
Wind-shaken, blind with blows, 
Paris lays hold upon her, grasps her with child's 
hands; 
Face kindles face with fire. 
Hearts take and give desire. 
Strange joy breaks red as tempest on tormented 
lands. 
Day to day, man to man, 
Plights love republican. 
And faith and memory burn with passion to- 
ward each other ; 
Hope, with fresh heavens to track. 
Looks for a breath's space back. 
Where the divine past years reach hands to this 
their brother; 
And souls of men whose death 
Was light to her and breath 
Send word of love yet living to the living 
mother. 
They call her, and she hears ; 
O France, thy marvellous years. 
The years of the strong travail, the triumphant 
time. 
Days terrible with love. 
Red-shod with flames thereof. 



64 ^Im }^ottiM of ^tDinbume 

Call to this hour that breaks in pieces crown 
and crime; 
The hour with feet to spurn, 
Hands to crush, fires to burn 
The state whereto no latter foot of man shall 
climb. 
Yea, come what grief now may 
By ruinous night or day. 
One grief there cannot, one the first and last 
grief, shame. 
Come force to break thee and bow 
Down, shame can come not now. 
Nor, though hands wound thee, tongues make 
mockery of thy name : 
Come swords and scar thy brow, 
No brand there burns it now. 
No spot but of thy blood marks thy white- 
fronted fame. 
Now though the mad blind morrow 
With shafts of iron sorrow 
Should split thine heart, and whelm thine head 
with sanguine waves ; 
Though all that draw thy breath 
Bled from all veins to death. 
And thy dead body were the grave of all their 
graves. 
And thine unchilded womb 
For all their tombs a tomb. 



WIft ifmtc^ KepubUc 65 

At least within thee as on thee room were none 
for slaves. 
This power thou hast, to be, 
Come death or come not, free ; 
That in all tongues of time's this praise be 
chanted of thee. 
That in thy wild worst hour 
This power put in thee power. 
And moved as hope around and hung as heaven 
above thee. 
And while earth sat in sadness 
In only thee put gladness, 
Put strength and love, to make all hearts of ages 
love thee. 
That in death's face thy chant 
Arose up jubilant. 
And thy great heart with thy great peril grew 
more great : 
And sweet for bitter tears 
Put out the fires of fears. 
And love made lovely for thee loveless hell and 
hate ; 
And they that house with error. 
Cold shame and burning terror. 
Fled from truth risen and thee made mightier 
than thy fate. 
This shall all years remember ; 
For this thing shall September 



66 f^fHttt pottttf of ^tDtnbttme 

Have only name of honour, only sign of white. 

And this year's fearful name, 

France, in thine house of fame 
Above all names of all thy triumphs shalt thou 
write. 

When, seeing thy freedom stand 

Even at despair's right hand, 
The cry thou gavest at heart was only of delight. 



J' '':c 'J />" 'f- • 



/^ ' -^ < V •^ - ^ 



• 1 



POEMS o1^ F^AGANISM AND 
^« PANTHEISM 






THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE 

H£R£. where the world is quiet; ^ ^^, 
Here, where all trouble seems \ ' ^ 

Dead winds' and spent waves' not i *** 
In doubtful dreams of dreams ^ ^ 
^I watch the green field growing ^ 

For reaping folk and sowing, ^ 

For harvest-time and mowing, ^ 
A sleepy world of streams. 



I am tired of tears and laughter, 

And men that laugh and weep ; 
Of what may' come hereafter- 
For men that sow to reap : 
I am weary of days and hours^ 
Bldwn Md| of barren' flowers. 
Desires and dreatns and powers 
And every thing but sleep. , 

» , V ' t 

Here life has death for neighbor, ^^ 
And far from eye or ear }j^ ^ 



< 

V 



V 1 ' ^' } 












w|rimmf 



68 ^Irct IBoemt? of &i 

Wan waves and wet winds Wbour,^ 

Weak ships and spirits st^r ;^ 
They drive adrift, and whitier c 
They wot not who make tiitherjf 
But no such winds blow tlther,c p 
And no such things gn/w here, ^ 

No growth of moor or coppice. 

No heather-flower of vine. 
But bloomless buds of poppies. 
Green grapes of Proserpine, 
Pale beds of blowing rushes 
Where no leaf blooms or blushes 
Save this whereout she crushes 
V For dead rtien deadly wine. / 

Pale, without name or number, ' 
In fruitless fields of corn,^ 

They bow themselves and slumber" 
All night till light is born ^ r 

And like a soul belated,^ 
. In hell and heaven unmated. 

By cloud and mist $Lb«rted 

Comes out of darkness morn. 



J Though one were strong as seven, 
\ He too with death shall dwell. 
Nor wake with wings in heaven, 
1 Nor weep for pains in hell ; 



' Though one were fair as roses, 
^ His beauty clouds and closes ; 
^ And well though love reposes, 
^ In the end it is not well. 

Pale, beyond porch and portal. 

Crowned with calm leaves, she stands 
Who gathers all things mortal 
With cold immortal hands ; 
Her languid lips are sweeter 
Than love's w1m| fears to greet her 
To men that mix and meet her 
From many times and lands. 

She waits for each and other, , / 

She waits for all men born ; ^ 

Forgets the earth her mother, \ 

The life of fruits and corn ; 
ik* And spring and seed and swallow 
f^l , V Take wing for her and follow » 

jf// *^ t Where summer song rings hollow 
; ./ ; ^ And flowers are put to scorn, i ' 



^V 



There go the loves that wither. 
The old loves with wearier wings j 

And all dead years draw thither, 
And all disastrous things ; 



70 ^tittt :|^em0 of ^tutolmme 

; Dead dreams of days forsaken, 
j Blind buds that snows have shaken, 
^Wild leaves that winds have taken, 
Red strays of ruined springs. 

We are not sure of sorrow, 

And joy was never sure ; 
To-day will die to-morrow ; 

Time stoops to no man's lure ; 
And love, grown faint and fretful 
With lips but half regretful 
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful 

Weeps that no loves endure. 

From too much love of living, 

V From hope and fear set free, 

^ We thank with brief thanksgiving ' ] ^ 

Whatever gods may be ' \ . 

That no life lives for ever ; ' f^^ \^ 

\That dead men rise up never ; , / J 

That even the weariest river I 

' Winds somewhere safe to sea. . 

* Then star nor sun shall waken, ^' ' '^^'■^-'•\* 
\ Nor any change of light>: , >^-^ ' 



1 



\ 



Nor sound of waters shaken. 
Nor any sound or sight : 



ijvtrni to Tjpmtttfim 71 

Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, 
^ Nor days nor things diurnal ; 
^Only the sleep eternal 
cterrRfnig^. 




' J • 



HYMN TO PROSERPINE 

(after the proclamation in ROME OF THE 

CHRISTIAN faith) 

Vicistiy Galilae. 

I HAVE lived long enough, having seen one 

thing, that love hath an end ; 
Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me 

now and befriend. 
Thou art more than the day or the morrow, the 

seasons that laugh or that weep ; 
For these give joy and sorrow j but thou, Pros- 
erpina, sleep. 
Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet the 

feet of the dove ; 
iut a goodlier gift is thine than foam of the 
grapes or love. ' 

\ Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harp- 
string of gold, 
bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to be- 
V hold t 



\ Abi( 



72 ^fittt ^oem0 of ^iDistbttnte 

I am sick of singing : the bays burn deep and 
chafe : I am fain 
'^ To rest a little from praise and grievous pleas- 
ure and pain. 
^ For the Gods we know not of, who give us our 
I daily breath, I 

f We know they are cruel as love or life, and 
lovely as death. 



•^O Gods dethroned and deceased, cast forth, 
( wiped out in a day ! 

,' From your wrath is the world released, re- 
deemed from your chains, men say. 

New Gods are crowned in the city -, their flow- 

> ers have broken your rods; ^ 

rThey are merciful, clothed with pity, the young 
compassionate Gods. 

But for me their new device is barren, the days 
are bare ; 

Things long past over suffice, and men forgot- 
ten that were. 

Time and the Gods are at strife ; ye dwell in 
the midst thereof. 

Draining a little life from the barren breasts of 

"•^ love. 

I say to you, cease, take rest ; yea, I say to you 
all, be at peace. 

Till the bitter milk of her breast and the barren 
bosom shall cease. 



y 



p^gma to }l^ettpim 73 

Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean ? but these thou 

shalt not take, 
The laurel, the palms and the psean, the breasts 

of the nymphs in the brake ; 
Breasts more soft than a dove's, that tremble 

with tenderer breath ; 
And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy 

before death ; 
All the feet of the hours that sound as a single 

lyre. 
Dropped and deep in the flowers, with strings 

that flicker like Are. 
More than these wilt thou give, things fairer 

than all these things ? _. 

Nay, for a little we live, and life hath mutable 

wings. f- ' i M /, 

A little while and we die ; shall life not thrive 

as it may ? 
For no man under the sky lives twice, outliving 

his day. 
And grief is a grievous thing, and a man hath 

enough of his tears : 
Why should he labour, and bring fresh grief to 

blacken his years ? 
^Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilisan ; the 

world has grown grey from thy breath ; 
^^\Ve have drunken of things Lethean, and fed 

on the fulness of death. 



74 Select TUftotmg of ^tDinbume 

Laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet 

for a day ; 
But love grows bitter with treason, and laurel 

outlives not May. 
Sleep, shall we sleep after all ? for the world is 

not sweet in the end ; 
For the old faiths loosen and fall, the new years 

ruin and rend. 
Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul is a 

rock that abides ; 
But her ears are vexed with the roar and her 
— face with the foam of the tides. 



O lips that the live blood faints in, the leavings 
of racks and rods ! 

ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gib- 

beted gods ! 
Though all men abase them before you in spirit, 
and all knees bend, 

1 kneel not neither adore you, but standing, look 
^^ to the end. 

^e^AU delicate days and pleasant, all spirits and 
'* sorrows are cast 

Far out with the foam of the present that 

sweeps to the surf of the pa^t : . *.- 
Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and be- 
■^ ^ween the remote sea-gates. 
Waste water washes, and tall ships founder, and 
deep death waits: 



^unm to iprotferpine 75 

Where, mighty with deepening sides, clad about 

with the seas as with wings. 
And impelled of invisible tides, and fulfilled of 

unspeakable things. 
White-eyed and poisonous-finned, shark-toothed 

and serpentine-curled, 
Rolls, under the whitening wind of the future, 

the wave of the world. 
The depths stand naked in sunder behind it, 

the storms flee away ; 
In the hollow before it the thunder is taken 

and snared as a prey ; 
In its sides is the north-wind bound ; and its salt 

is of all men's tears ; 
With light of ruin, and sound of changes, and 

pulse of years : 
With travail of day after day, and with trouble 

of hour upon hour ; 
And bitter as blood is the spray ; and the crests 

are as fangs that devour : 
And its vapour and storm of its steam as the 

sighing of spirits to be ; 
And its noise as the noise in a dream ; and fts 

depth as the roots of the sea : 
And the height of its heads as the height of the 

utmost stars of the air : 
And the ends of the earth at the might thereof 

tremble, and time is made bare. 



9HUct TUftotms of ^iDinlmmr 

Will yc bridle the deep sea with reins, will ye 

chasten the high sea with rods ? 
Will ye take her to chain her with chains, who 

is older than all ye Gods ? 
All ye as a wind shall go by,^^is a fire shall ye pass 

and be past ; 
Ye are Gods, and behold, ye shall die, and the 

waves be upon you at last. 
In the darkness of time, in the deeps of the 

years, in the changes of things. 
Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the 
^ world shall forget you for kings. 

Though the feet of thine high priests tread 

where thy lords and our forefathers trod, 
Though these that were Gods are dead, and 

thou being dead art a God, 
Though before thee the throned Cytherean be 

fallen, and hidden her head. 
Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy dead 
^ y shall go down to thee dead. •% 

'"Of the maiden thy mother men sing as a god- 
dess with grace clad around ; 
Thou art throned where another was king; where 

another was queen she is crowned. 
Yea, once we had sight of another : but now she 

is queen, say these. 
Not as thine, not as thine was our mother, a 

blossom of flowering seas. 



i??itin to piompine 77 

)lothed round with the world's desire as with 

raiment and fair as the foam, 
And fleeter than kindled Are, and a goddess and 

mother of Rome. 
For thine came pale and a maiden, and sister to 

sorrow ; but ours. 
Her deep hair heavily laden with odour and 

colour of flowers. 
White rose of the rose-white water, a silver 

splendour, a flame. 
Bent down unto us that besought her, and earth 

grew sweet with her name. 
For thine came weeping, a slave among slaves, 

and rejected ; but she 
Came flushed from the full-flushed wave, and 

imperial, her foot on the sea. 
And the wonderful waters knew her, the winds 

and the viewless ways. 
And the roses grew rosier, and blfier the sea-blue 
_^y ^ Stream of the bays. 
le are fallen, our lords, by what token ? we wist 

that ye should not fall. 
Ye were all so fair that are broken ; and one 

more fair than ye all. 
But I turn to her still, having seen she shall 

surely abide in the end ; 
Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now 

and befriend. 



&t\ttt ll^tmg of ^tDinbttme 

daughter of earth, of my mother, her crown 

and blossom of birth, 

1 am also, I also, thy brother ; I go as I came 

unto earth. 
In the night where thine eyes are as moons are 

in heaven, the night where thou art, 
Where the silence is more than all tunes, where 

sleep overflows from the heart, 
Where the poppies are sweet as the rose in our 

world, and the red rose is white. 
And the wind falls faint as it blows with the 
^ '/^^ fume of the flowers of the night, 

'/And. the murmur of spirits that sleep in the 
* ' shadow of Gods from afar 

\\ Grows dim in thine ears and deep as the deep 
V^ dim soul of a star. 

In the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens 

untrod by the sun. 
Let my soul with their souls find place, and 

forget what is done and undone. 
Thou art more than the Gods who number the 

days of our temporal breath ; 
For these give labour and slumber; but thou, 

Proserpina, death. 
Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a season 

in silence. I know 
I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they 

sleep ; even so. 



f 



^ For the glass i)f the yeary is brittle wherein we 

\ gaze ror a span ; 

1 A little soul for a little bears up this corpse 

' which is man/ 

) So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not 

again, neither weep. 
For there is no God found stronger than death ; 

and death is a sleep. 

THE LAST ORACLE 

(A. D. 361) 

cfrorc r^ fioffiKriXj X"^!*"^ *^^* ZaiHaKos ahXii- 
obK4rt ^o7$os Ix^* ica\6fiay, ob fMimiHa ZdpniP, 
oh vayiw \ii\4ov<rair hiritr^tro koX KdXop flZotp, 

Years have risen and fallen in darkness or in 
twilight. 
Ages waxed and waned that knew not thee 
nor thine. 
While the world sought light by night and 
sought not thy light. 
Since the sad last pilgrim left thy dark mid 
shrine. 
Dark the shrine and dumb the fount of song 
thence welling. 
Save for words more sad than tears of blood, 
that said : 

* r^vx^iop €? fiaffrdCop PtKp6p, Epictitot. 



8o ^Om TUftotms of ^tohtbttnie 

Tell the king^ on earth has fallen the glorious 
dwellings 
And the watersprings that spake are quenched 
and dead. 
Not a cell is left the Gody no roof no cover ; 

In his hand the prophet laurel flowers no more. 
And the great king's high sad heart, thy true 
last lover, 
Felt thine answer pierce and cleave it to the 
core. 
And he bowed down his hopeless head 
In the drift of the wild world's tide. 
And dying, Thou hast conquered^ he said, 

Galilean ; he said it, and died. 
And the world that was thine and was ours 
When the Graces took hands with the 

Hours 
Grew cold as a winter wave 
In the wind from a wide-mouthed grave. 
As a gulf wide open to swallow 
The light that the world held dear. 
O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
Destroyer and healer, hear ! 

Age on age thy mouth was mute, thy face was 
hidden. 
And the lips and eyes that loved thee blind 
and dumb \ 



Song forsook their tongues that held thy name 
forbidden, 
Light their eyes that saw the strange God's 
kingdom come. 
Fire for light and hell for heaven and psalms for 
paeans 
Filled the clearest eyes and lips most sweet 
of song, 
When for chant of Greeks the wail of Galileans 
Made the whole world moan with hymns of 
wrath and wrong. 
Yea, not yet we see thee, father, as they saw thee. 
They that worshipped when the world was 
theirs and thine. 
They whose words had power by thine own 
power to draw thee 
Down from heaven till earth seemed more 
than heaven divine. 
For the shades are about us that hover 

When darkness Is half withdrawn 
And the skirts of the dead night cover 

The face of the live new dawn. 
For the past is not utterly past 
Though the word on its lips be the last, 
And the time be gone by with its creed 
When men were as beasts that bleed. 
As sheep or as swine that wallow, 
In the shambles of faith and of fear. 



82 Select ^otmg of fstoixdrnvm 

O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
Destroyer and healer, hear ! 

Yet it may be, lord and father, could we know it. 
We that love thee for our darkness shall have 
light 
More than ever prophet hailed of old or poet 
Standing crowned and robed and sovereign in 
thy sight. 
To the likeness of one God their dreams en- 
thralled thee. 
Who wast greater than all Gods that waned 
and grew ; 
Son of God the shining son of Time they called 
thee. 
Who wast older, O our father, than they 
knew. 
For no thought of man made Gods to love or 
honour 
Ere the song within the silent soul began. 
Nor might earth in dream or deed take heaven 
upon her 
Till the word was clothed with speech by lips 
of man. 
And the word and the life wast thou. 
The spirit of man and the breath ; 
And before thee the Gods that bow 
Take life at thine hands and death. 



tC^ flMt ^mk 83 

For these are as ghosts that wane, 
That are gone in an age or twain ; 
Harsh, merciful, passionate, pure. 
They perish, but thou shalt endure ; 
Be their flight with the swan or the swallow. 
They pass as the flight of a year. 
O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
Destroyer and healer, hear ! 

Thou the word, the light, the life, the breath, the 
glory. 
Strong to help and heal, to lighten and to slay. 
Thine is all the song of man, the world's whole 
story; 
Not of morning and of evening is thy day. 
Old and younger Gods are buried or begotten 

From uprising to downsetting of thy sun, 
Risen from eastward, fallen to westward and 
forgotten. 
And their springs are many, but their end is 
one. 
Divers births of godheads find one death ap- 
pointed, 
As the soul whence each was born makes 
room for each ; 
God by God goes out, discrowned and dis- 
anointed. 



84 f^rlm )poem0 of j^itilmme 

But the soul stands fast that gave them shape 
and speech. 
Is the sun yet cast out of heaven ? 
Is the song yet cast out of man ? 
Life that had song for its leaven 
To quicken the blood that ran 
Through the veins of the songless years 
More bitter and cold than tears, 
Heaven that had thee for its one 
Light, life, word, witness, O sun. 
Are they soundless and sightless and hol- 
low. 
Without eye, without speech, without 
ear? 
O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
Destroyer and healer, hear ! 

Time arose and smote thee silent at his warn- 
ing. 
Change and darkness fell on men that fell 
from thee ; 
Dark thou satest, veiled with light, behind the 
morning. 
Till the soul of man should lift up eyes and see. 
Till the blind mute soul get speech again and 
eyesight, 
Man may worship not the light of life within ; 
In his sight the stars whose fires grow dark in 
thy sight 



tElft iLatft <Mmle 85 

Shine as sunbeams on the night of death and 
sin. 
Time again is risen with mightier word of 
warning, 
Change hath blown again a blast of louder 
breath ; 
Clothed with clouds and stars and dreams that 
melt in morning, 
Lo, the Gods that ruled by grace of sin and 
* death ! 

They are conquered, they break, they are 
stricken. 
Whose might made the whole world pale ; 
They are dust that shall rise not or quicken 
Though the world for their death's sake 
wail. 
As a hound on a wild beast's trace. 
So time has their godhead in chase ; 
As wolves when the hunt makes head. 
They are scattered, they fly, they are fled; 
They are fled beyond hail, beyond hollo. 
And the cry of the chase, and the cheer. 
O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
Destroyer and healer, hear ! 

,Day by day thy shadow shines in heaven be- 
holden,' 
Even the sun, the shining shadow of thy face : 



86^ f^rlect ^otmg of fsftoinhwmt 

King, the ways of heaven before thy feet grow 
golden ; 
God, the soul of earth is kindled with thy 
grace. 
In thy lips the speech of man whence Gods 
were fashioned, 
In thy soul the thought that makes them and 
unmakes ; 
By thy light and heat incarnate and impassioned, 
Soul to soul of man gives light for light and 
takes. 
As they knew thy name of old time could we 
know it, 
Healer called of sickness, slayer invoked of 
wrong, 
Light of eyes that saw thy light, God, .king, 
priest, poet, ^ 

Song should bring thee back to heal us with 
thy song. 
For thy kingdom is past not away. 

Nor thy power from the place thereof 
hurled ; 
Out of heaven they shall cast not the day, 
They shall cast not out song from the 
world. 
By the song and the light they give 
We know thy works that they live j 
With the gift thou hast given us of speech 



We praise, we adore, we beseech, 
We arise at thy bidding and follow, 
We cry to thee, answer, appear, 
O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
Destroyer and healer, hear ! 



HERTHA 






I AM that which began $ 
Out of me the years roll ; 

Out of me God and man ; ^ 
I am equal and Whole^ 



God changes, andman, and the form of them 
bodily ; I am the soul. 

Before ever land was. 
Before ever the sea. 
Or soft hair of the grass. 
Or fair limbs of the tree. 
Or the flesh-coloured fruit of my branches, I was, 
and thy soul was in me. 

% 

First life on my sources 

First drifted and swam ; 
Out of me are the forces 
That save it or damn ; 
Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and 
bird 'y before God was, I am. 



1 



88 j^riect ^otwas of ^tohtbomr 

Beside or above me 

Nought is there to go ; 
Love or unlove me, 
Unknow me or know, 
I am that which unloves me and loves ; I am 
stricken, and I am the blow. 

I the mark that is missed 

And the arrows that miss, 
I the mouth that is kissed 
And the breath in the kiss, 
The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the 
soul and the body that is. 

I am that thing which blesses 

My spirit elate ; 
That which caresses 
With hands uncrea^e 
My limbs unbegotten that measure the length 
of the measure of fate. 

But what thing dost thou now. 
Looking Godward, to dry 
" I am I, thou art thou, 

I am low„ thou art high ? " 
I am th9u,.who^ thou seekest to find him ; find 
1 thouvbut thyself, thou art L 



i}ttt^ 89 

I the grain axid the fufrow. 
The plough-clovjen clod 
And the ploughshare drawn thorough. 
The germ and the sod, 
The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, 
the dust which is God. 

Hast thou known how I fashioned thee. 

Child, underground ? 
Fire that impassioned thee. 
Iron that bound, 
Dim changes of water, what thing of all these 
hast thou known of or found ? 

Canst thou say in thine heart 

Thou has seen with thine eyes 
With what cunning of art 

Thou wast wrought in what wise. 
By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, 
and shown on my breast to the skies ? 

Who hath given, who hath sold it thee. 

Knowledge of me ? 
Hath the wilderness told it thee ? 
Hast thou learnt of the sea ? 
Hast thou communed in spirit with night ? have 
the winds taken counsel with thee ? 



90 f^rlect Tf^ttM of fstoinhwmt 

Have I set such a star 

To show light on thy brow 
That thou sawest from afar 
What I show to thee now ? 
Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun 
and the mountains and thou? 

What is here, dost thou know it ? 

What was, hast thou known ? 
Prophet nor poet 

Nor tripod nor throne 
Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only 
thy mother alone. 

Mother, not maker. 

Born, and not made ; 
Though her children forsake her, 
Allured or afraid. 
Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she 
stirs not for all that have prayed. 

A creed is a rod. 

And a crown is of night ; 
But this thing is God, 

To be man with thy might. 
To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, 
and live out thy life as the light. 



I am in thee to save thee, 

As my soul in thee saith. 
Give thou as I gave thee, 
Thy life-blood and breath, 
Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy 
thought, and red fruit of thy death. 

Be the ways of thy giving 
As mine were to thee ; 
The free life of thy living. 
Be the gift of it free ; 
Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, 
shalt thou give thee to me. 

children of banishment. 
Souls overcast. 

Were the lights ye see vanish meant 
Alway to last. 
Ye would know not the sun overshining the 
shadows and stars overpast. 

1 that saw where ye trod 

The dim paths of the night 
Set the shadow called God 
In your skies to give light ; 
But the morning of manhood is risen, and the ' 
shadowless soul is in sight. 



92 fMrct )poeiii0 of f^toitilmme 

The tree many-rooted 

That swells to the sky 
With frondage red-fruited. 
The life-tree am I ; 
In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves : 
ye shall live and not die. 

But the Gods of your fashion 

That take and that give, 
In their pity and passion 
That scourge and forgive. 
They are worms that are bred in the bark that 
falls off: they shall die and not live. 

My own blood is what stanches 

The wounds in my bark ; 
Stars caught in my branches 
Make day of the dark. 
And are worshipped as suns till the sunrise shall 
tread out their fires as a spark. 

Where dead ages hidejunder 
The live roots of thejtree. 
In my darkness the thunder 
Makes utterance of me ; 
In the clash of my boughs with each other ye 
hear the waves sound of the sea. 



That noise is of Time, 

As his feathers are spread 
And his feet set to climb 

Through the boughs overhead, 
And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and 
branches are bent with his tread. 

The storm-winds of ages 

Blow through me and cease. 
The war-wind that rages. 
The spring-wind of peace. 
Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere 
one of my blossoms increase. 

All sounds of all changes. 
All shadows and lights 
On the world's mountain-ranges 
And stream-riven heights. 
Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and lan- 
guage of storm-clouds on earth-shaking 
^ nights ; 

All forms of all faces. 

All works of alL hands 
In unsearchable places 
Of time-stricken lands, 
All death and all life, and i^ reigns and all ruins, 
drop through me as sands. 



94 ?st\ta Tf^ttM of f^ttiintmntr 

Though sore be my burden 
And more than ye know, 
And my growth have no guerdon 
But only to grow, 
Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above 
me or deathworms below. 

These too have their part in me, 

As I too in these; 
Such fire is at heart in me. 
Such sap is this tree's. 
Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of 
infinite lands and of seas. 

In the spring-coloured hours 

When my mind was as May's, 
There brake forth of me flowers 
By centuries of days, 
Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot 
out from my spirit as rays. 

And the sound of them springing 

And smell of their shoots 
Were as warmth and sweet singing 
And strength to my roots ; 
And the lives of my children made perfect with 
freedom of soul were my fruits. 



I bid you but be ; 

I have need not of prayer ; 
I have need of you free 

As your mouths of mine air ; 
That my heart may be greater within me, be- 
holding the fruits of me fair. 

More fair than strange fruit is 

Of faiths ye espouse ; 
In me only the root is 

That blooms in your boughs ; 
Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed 
him with faith of your vows. 

In the darkening and whitening 

Abysses adored. 
With dayspring and lightning 
For lamp and for sword, 
God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red 
with the wrath of the Lord. 

O my sons, O too dutiful 

Toward Gods not of me. 
Was not I enough beautiful ? 
Was it hard to be free ? 
For behold, I am with you, am in you and of 
you J look forth now and see. 



96 ^Im )poem0 of f^ttiinbante 

Lo, winged with world's wonders, 

With miracles shod, 
With the fires of his thunders 
For raiment and rod, 
God trembles in heaven, and his angels are 
white with the terror of God. 

For his twilight is come on him. 

His anguish is here ; 
And his spirits gaze dumb on him, 
Grown grey from his fear ; 
And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the 
last of his infinite year. 

Thought made him and breaks him. 

Truth slays and forgives ; 
But to you, as time takes him. 
This new thing it gives. 
Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds 
upon freedom and lives. 

For truth only is living. 
Truth only is whole. 
And the love of his giving 
Man's polestar and pole ; 
Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, 
and seed of my soul. 



pgma of 9an 97 

One birth of my bosom ; 

One beam of mine eye ; 
One topmost blossom 
That scales the sky ; 
Man, equal and one with me, man that is made 
of me, man that is I. 



HYMN OF MAN 

(during the session in ROME OF THE 
(ECUMENICAL COUNCIL) 

* In the grey beginning of years, in the twilight 

of things that began. 
The word of the earth in the ears of the world, 

' was it God ? was it man ? 
The word of the earth to the spheres her sisters, 

the note of her song, 
The sound of her speech in the ears of the starry 

and sisterly throng. 
Was it praise or passion or prayer, was it love 

or devotion or dread. 
When the veils of the shining air first wrapt her 

jubilant head ? 
When her eyes new-bom of the night saw yet 

no star out of reach ; 
When her maiden mouth was alight with the 

flame of musical speech ; 



98 ptlttt piemtf of ^toinbume 

When her virgin feet were set on the terrible 

heavenly way, 
And her virginal lids were wet with the dew of 

the birth of the day : 
Eyes that had looked not on time, and ears that 

had heard not of death ; 
Lips that had learnt not the rhyme of change 

and passionate breath. 
The rhythmic anguish of growth, and the motion 

of mutable things. 
Of love that longs and is loth, and plume-plucked 

hope without wings. 
Passions and pains without number, and life that 

runs and is lame, 
From slumber again to slumber, the same race 

set for the same. 
Where the runners outwear each other, but run- 
ning with lampless hands 
No man takes light from his brother till blind at 

the goal he stands : 
Ah, did they know, did they dream of it, count- 
ing the cost and the worth ? 
The ways of her days, did they seem then good 

to the new-souled earth ? 
Did her heart rejoice, and the might of her spirit 

exult in her then. 
Child yet no child of the night, and motherless 

mother of men ? 



il?l?ttin of 9fian 99 

Was it Love brake forth flower-fashion, a bird 

with gold on his wings, 
Lovely, her firstborn passion, and impulse of 

firstborn things ? 
Was Love that nestling indeed that under the 

plumes of the night 
Was hatched and hidden as seed in the furrow, 

and brought forth bright ? 
Was it Love lay shut in the shell world-shaped, 

having over him there 
Black world-wide wings that impel the might 

of the night through air ? 
And bursting his shell as a bird, night shook 

through her sail-stretched vans. 
And her heart as a water was stirred, and its 

heat was the firstborn man's. 
For the waste of the dead void air took form of 

a world at birth. 
And the waters and firmaments were, and light, 

and the life-giving earth. 
The beautiful bird unbegotten that night brought 

forth without pain 
In the fathomless years forgotten whereover the 

dead gods reign. 
Was it love, life, godhead, or fate ? we say the 

spirit is one 
That moved on the dark to create out of dark- 
ness the stars and the sun. 






1 00 j^elect portitf of ^loinbume 

Before the growth was the grower, and the seed 

ere the plant was sown ; 
But what was seed of the sower ? and the grain 

of him, whence was it grown ? 
Foot after foot ye go back and travail and make 

yourselves mad ; 
Blind feet that feel for the track where highway 

is none to be had. 
Therefore the God that ye make you is grievous, 

and gives not aid. 
Because it is but for your sake that the God of 

your making is made. 
Thou and I and he are not gods made men for 

a span. 
But God, if a God there be, is the substance of 

men which is man. 
Our lives are as pulses or pores of his manifold 

body and breath ; 
As waves of his sea on the shores where birth is 

the beacon of death. 
We men, the multiform features of man, what' 

soever we be. 
Recreate him of whom we are creatures, and all 

we only are he. 
For each man of all men is God, but God is the 

fruit of the whole ; 
Indivisible spirit and blood, indiscernible body 

from soul. 



!ll^pmtlt9wa: . text 

Not men's but man's is the glory of godhead, 
the kingdom of time. 

The mountainous ages made hoary with snows 
for the spirit to climb. 

A God with the world inwound whose clay to 
his footsole clings ; 

A manifold God fast-bound as with iron of ad- 
verse things. 

A soul that labours and lives, an emotion, a 
strenuous breath. 

From the flame that its own mouth gives re- 
illumed, and refreshed with death. 

In the sea whereof centuries are waves the live 
God plunges and swims ; 

His bed is in all men's graves, but the worm 
hath not hold on his limbs. 

Night puts out not his eyes, nor time sheds 
change on his head \ 

With such fire as the stars of the skies are the 
roots of his heart are fed. 

Men are the thoughts passing through it, the 
veins that fulfil it with blood. 

With spirit of sense to renew it as springs ful- 
filling a flood. 

Men are the heartbeats of man, the plumes that 
feather his wings. 

Storm- worn, since being began, with the wind 
and thunder of things. 



Things are cruel and blind ; their strength detains 

and deforms : 
And the wearying wings of the mind still beat 

up the stream of their storms. 
Still, as one swimming up stream, they strike out 

blind in the blast, 
In thunders of vision and dream, and lightnings 

of future and past. 
We are baffled and caught in the current and 

bruised upon edges of shoals ; 
As weeds or as reeds in the torrent of things 

are the wind-shaken souls. 
Spirit by spirit goes under, a foam-bell's bubble 

of breath. 
That blows and opens in sunder and blurs not 

the mirror of death. 
For a worm or a thorn in his path is a man's 

soul quenched as a flame; 
For his lust of an hour or his wrath shall the 

worm and the man be the same. 
O God sore stricken of things! they have 

wrought him a raiment of pain ; 
Can a God shut eyelids and wings at a touch on 

the nerves of the brain ? 
O shamed and sorrowful God, whose force goes 

out at a blow ! 
What world shall shake at his nod ? at his com- 
ing what wilderness glow ? 



!|?Sitm of 9^ 103 

What help in the work of his hands ? what 

light in the track of his feet ? 
His days are snowflakes or sands, with cold to 

consume him and heat. 
He is servant with Change for lord, and for 

wages he hath to his hire 
Folly and force, and a sword that devours, and 

a ravening fire. 
From the bed of his birth to his grave he is driven 

as a wind at their will ; 
Lest Change bow down as his slave, and the 

storm and the sword be still ; 
Lest earth spread open her wings to the sun- 
ward, and sing with the spheres ; 
Lest man be master of things, to prevail on their 

forces and fears. 
^ By the spirit are things overcome ; they are stark, 
N^ and the spirit hath breath ; 

' It hath speech, and their forces are dumb ; it is 

living, and things are of death. 
But they know not the spirit for master, they 

feel not force from above. 
While man makes love to disaster, and woos 

desolation with love. 
Yea, himself too hath made himself chains, and 

his own hands plucked out his eyes ; 
For his own soul only constrains him, his own 

mouth only denies. 



104 $^rlect TH^tmt of ^isMnmu 

The herds of kings and their hosts and the flocks 

of the high priests bow 
To a master whose face is a ghost's ; O thou 

that wast God, is it thou ? 
Thou madest man in the garden ; thou tempt- 

edst man, and he fell ; 
Thou gavest him poison and pardon for blood 

and burnt-offering to sell. 
Thou hast sealed thine elect to salvation, fast 

locked with faith for the key ; 
p Make now for thyself expiation, and be thine 

atonement for thee. 
Ah, thou that darkenest heaven — ah, thou that 

bringest a sword — 
By the crimes of thine hands unforgiven they 

beseech thee to hear them, O Lord. 
By the balefires of ages that burn for thine in- 
cense, by creed and by rood. 
By the famine and passion that yearn and that 

hunger to find of thee food. 
By the children that asked at thy dirone of the 

priests that were fat with thine hire 
For bread, and thou gavest a stone ; for light, ' 

and thou madest them fire ; f 

By the kiss of thy peace like a snake's kiss, that > 

leaves the soul rotten at root ; 
By the savours of gibbets and stakes thou hast 

planted to bear to thee fruit ; ' 



p^pmt of 9^X1 105 

By torture and terror and treason, that make to 

thee weapons and wings ; 
By thy power upon men for a season, made out 

of the malice of things ; 
O thou that hast built thee a shrine of the mad- 
ness of man and his shame. 
And hast hung in the midst for a sign of his 

worship the lamp of thy name ; 
That hast shown him for heaven in a vision 

a void world's shadow and shell. 
And hast fed thy delight and derision with fire 

of belief as of hell ; 
That hast fleshed on the souls that believe thee 

the fang of the death-worm fear. 
With anguish of dreams to deceive them whose 

faith cries out in thine ear; 
By the face of the spirit confounded before thee 

and humbled in dust. 
By the dread wherewith life was astounded and 

shamed out of sense of its trust. 
By the scourges of doubt and repentance that 

fell on the soul at thy nod, 
»Thou art judged, O judge, and the sentence is 
^ gone forth against thee, O God. 

^Thy slave that slept is awake; thy slave but 
^ slept for a span ; 

Yea, man thy slave shall unmake thee, who made 
^ thee lord over man. 



1 06 ^lect TjlpottM of ^iDinimmr 

For his face is set to the east, his feet on the 

past and its dead ; 
The sun rearisen is his priest, and the heat 

thereof hallows his head. 
His eyes take part in the morning; his spirit 

outsounding the sea 
Asks no more witness or warning from temple 

or tripod or tree. 
He hath set the centuries at union ; the night is 

afraid at his name ; 
Equal with life, in communion with death, he 

hath found them the same. 
Past the wall unsurmounted that bars out our 

vision with iron and fire 
He hath sent forth his soul for the stars to com- 
ply with and suns to conspire. 
His thought takes flight for the centre where- 
through it hath part in the whole ; 
The abysses forbid it not enter : the stars make 

room for the soul. 
Space is the soul's to inherit; the night is hers 

as the day ; 
Lo, saith man, this is my spirit ; how shall not 

the worlds make way ? 
Space is thought's, and the wonders thereof, and 

the secret of space ; 
Is thought not more than the thunders and 

lightnings ? shall thought give place ? 



ll^Sinn at 9fiBn 107 

Is the body not more than the vesture, the life 

not more than the meat ? 
The will than the word or the gesture, the heart 

than the hands or the feet ? 
Is the tongue not more than the speech is ? the 

head not more than the crown ? 
And if higher than is heaven be the reach of the 

soul, shall not heaven bow down ? 
Time, father of life, and more great than the 

life it begat and began. 
Earth's keeper and heaven's and their fate, lives, 

thinks, and hath substance in man. 
Time's motion that throbs in his blood is the 

thought that gives heart to the skies. 
And the springs of the fire that is food to the 

sunbeams are light to his eyes. 
The minutes that beat with his heart are the 

words to which worlds keep chime. 
And the thought in his pulses is part of the 

blood and the spirit of time. 
He saith to the ages. Give ; and his soul fore- 
goes not her share ; 
Who are ye that forbid him to live, and would 

feed him with heavenlier air ? 
Will ye feed him with poisonous dust, and re- 
store him with hemlock for drink. 
Till he yield you his soul up in trust, and have 

heart not to know or to think ? 



t 



io8 ^\ta TH^tmt of ^iDinbame 

He hath stirred him, and found out the flaw in 
' his fetters, and cast them behind ; 

^ ( His soul to his soul is a law, and his mind is 

a light to his mind.) 
The seal of his knowledge is sure, the truth and 

his spirit are wed ; 
Men perish, but man shall endure ; lives die, 

but the life is not dead. 
He hath sight of the secrets of season, the roots 

of the years and the fruits ; 
His soul is at one with the reason of things that 

is sap to the roots. 
He can hear in their changes a sound as the 

conscience of consonant spheres ; 
He can see through the years flowing round 

him the law lying under the years. 
Who are ye that would bind him with curses 

and blind him with vapour of prayer ? 
Your might is as night that disperses when light 

is alive in the air. 
The bow of your godhead is broken, the arm 

of your conquest is stayed ; 
Though ye call down God to bear token, for 

fear of you none is afraid. 
Will ye turn back times, and the courses of 

stars, and the season of souls ? 
Shall God's breath dry up the sources that feed 

time full as it rolls ? 



l|?Sinti of ^Etn 109 

Nay, cry on him then till he show you a sign, 

till he lift up a rod ; 
Hath he made not the nations to know him of 

old if indeed he be God ? 
Is no heat of him left in the ashes of thousands 

burnt up for his sake ? 
Can prayer not rekindle the flashes that shone 

in his face from the stake ? 
Cry aloud ; for your God is a God and a Saviour; 

cry, make yourselves lean ; 
Is he drunk or asleep, that the rod of his wrath 

is unfelt and unseen ? 
Is the fire of his old loving-kindness gone out, 

that his pyres are acold ? 
Hath he gazed on himself unto blindness, who 

made men blind to behold ? 
Cry out, for his kingdom is shaken ; cry out, for 

the people blaspheme ; 
Cry aloud till his godhead awaken ; what doth 

he to sleep and to dream ? 
Cry, cut yourselves, gash you with knives and 

with scourges, heap on to you dust ; 
Is his life but as other gods' lives ? is not this 

the Lord God of your trust ? 
Is not this the great God of your sires, that with 

souls and with bodies was fed. 
And the world was on flame with his fires ? O 

fools, he was God, and is dead. 



1 1 o f^tittt TH^ttM of $^tiimlmmr 

He will hear not again the strong crying of earth 

in his ears as before, 
And the fume of his multitudes dying shall flatter 

his nostrils no more. 
By the spirit he ruled as his slave is he slain 

who was mighty to slay, 
And the stone that is sealed on his grave he 
shall rise not and roll not away. 
^ Yea, weep to him, lift up your hands ; be your 
' eyes as a fountain of tears ; 

I Where hfe stood there is nothing that stands ; if 
f he call, there is no man that hears. 

He hath doffed his king's raiment of lies now 
'' the wane of his kingdom is come ; 

Ears hath he, and hears not ; and eyes, and he 
sees not ; and mouth, and is dumb. 
' His red king's raiment is ripped from him naked, 

his staff broken down ; 
^ And the signs of his empire are stripped from 
i him shuddering ; and where is his crown ? 

And in vain by the wellsprings refrozen ye cry 

for the warmth of his sun — 
O God, the Lord God of thy chosen, thy will 
' in thy kingdom be doiie. 

I Kingdom and will hath he none in him left him, 
nor warmth in his breath : 
Till his corpse be cast out of the sun will ye 
know not the truth of his death ? 



i^tttn of 9^n 1 1 1 

r Surely, ye say, he is strong, though the times be 
against him and men ; 
Yet a little, ye say, and how long, till he come 
to show judgment again ? 

y Shall God then die as the beasts die ? wfio is it 

( hath broken his rod ? 

f God, Lord God of thy priests, rise up now 
and show thyself God. 

' They cry out, thine elect, thine aspirants to 

' heavenward, whose faith is as flame ; 

f thou the Lord God of our tyrants^ they call 

' thee, their God, by thy name. 

f By thy name that in hell-fire was written, and 

' burned at the point of thy sword. 

Thou art smitten, thou God, thou art smitten, 

thy death is upon thee, O Lord. 
And the love-song of earth as thou diest re- 
sounds through the wind of her wings — 
Glory to Man in the highest ! for Man is the 
master of things. 



SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE 



PRELUDE 



Between the green bud and the red 
Youth sat and sang by Time, and shed 

From eyes and tresses flowers and tears, 

From heart and spirit hopes and fears. 
Upon the hollow stream whose bed 

Is channelled by the foamless years ; 
And with the white the gold-haired head 

Mixed running locks, and in Time's ears 
Youth's dreams hung singing, and Time's truth 
Was half not harsh in the ears of Youth. 

Between the bud and the blown flower 
Youth talked with joy and grief an hour. 

With footless joy and wingless grief 

And twin-born faith and disbelief 
Who share the seasons to devour; 

And long ere these made up their sheaf 
Felt the winds round him shake and shower 

The rose-red and the blood-red leaf. 
Delight whose germ grew never grain. 
And passion dyed in its own pain. 



ptttttOe 113 

Then he stood up, and trod to dust 
Fear and desire, mistrust and trust. 

And dreams of bitter sleep and sweet. 

And bound for sandals on his feet 
Knowledge and patience of what must 

And what things may be, in the heat 
And cold of years that rot and rust 

And alter ; and his spirit's meat 
Was freedom, and his staff was wrought 
Of strength, and his cloak woven of thought. 

For what has he whose will sees clear 
To do with doubt and faith and fear. 

Swift hopes and slow despondencies ? 

His heart is equal with the sea's 
And with the sea-wind's, and his ear 

Is level to the speech of these, 
And his soul communes and takes cheer 

With the actual earth's equalities. 
Air, light, and night, hills, winds, and streams. 
And seeks not strength from strengthless dreams. 

His soul is even with the sun 
Whose spirit and whose eyes are one. 

Who seeks not stars by day nor light 

And heavy heat of day by night. 
Him can no God cast down, whom none 

Can lift in hope beyond the height 



1 1 4 Select )^rm0 of ^toinimmr 

Of fate and nature and things done 

By the calm rule of might and right 
That bids men be and bear and do, 
And die beneath blind skies or blue.- 

To him the lights of even and morn 
Speak no vain things of love or scorn, 

Fancies and passions miscreate 

By man in things dispassionate. 
Nor holds he fellowship forlorn 

With souls that pray and hope and hate, 
And doubt they had better not been born, 

And fain would lure or scare off fate 
And charm their doomsman from their doom 
And make fear dig its own false tomb. 

He builds not half of doubts and half 
Of dreams his own soul's cenotaph. 

Whence hopes and fears with helpless eyes, 

Wrapt loose in cast-off cerecloths, rise 
And dance and wring their hands and laugh. 

And weep thin tears and sigh light sighs. 
And without living lips would quaff 

The living spring in man that lies. 
And drain his soul of faith and strength. 
It might have lived on a life*s length. 

He hath given himself and hath not sold 
To God for heaven or man for gold. 



^s 



^^reltair 115 

Or grief for comfort that it gives, 
Or joy for grief's restoratives. 

^Hg„hat^ givffn_iiim^l£.trk-timPj whose foId 

Shuts in the mortal flock that lives 
On its plain pasture's heat and cold 

And the equal year's alternatives. 
i£arth, heaven, and time, death, life, and he, 

(Endure while they shall be to be. 

« 

" Yet between death and life are hours 
To flush with love and hide in flowers ; 

What profit save in these ? " men cry : 
" Ah, see, between soft earth and sky. 
What only good things here are ours ! " 

They say, " What better wouldst thou try. 
What sweeter sing of ? or what powers 

Serve, that will give thee ere thou die 
More joy to sing and be less sad. 
More heart to play and grow more glad ? " 

Play then and sing ; we too have played, 

We likewise, in that subtle shade. 

, We too have twisted through our hair 

Such tendrils as the wild Loves wear, 
And l^eard what mirth the Maenads made, 

Till^fae wind blew our garlands bare 
And left their roses disarrayed. 

And smote the summer with strange air, 



1 16 jMect )^etii0 of 0feDtoimntr 

And disengirdled and discrowned 

The limbs and locks that vine-wreaths bound. 

We too have tracked by star-proof trees 
The tempest of the Thyiades 

Scare the loud night on hills that hid 

The blood-feasts of the Bassarid, 
Heard their song's iron cadences 

Fright the wolf hungering from the kid, 
Outroar the lion-throated seas, 

Outchide the north-wind if it chid, ' 
And hush the torrent-tongued ravines 
With thunders of their tambourines. • 

But the fierce flute whose notes acclaim 
Dim goddesses of fiery fame, 

Cymbal and clamorous kettledrum. 

Timbrels and tabrets, all are dumb 
That turned the high chill air to flame; 

The singing tongues of fire are numb 
That called on Cotys by her name 

Edonian, till they felt her come 
And maddened, and her mystic face 
Lightened along the streams of Thrace. 

For Pleasure slumberless and pale, 

And^ssion with rejected veil, 

£ass^and the tempest-footed throng 
Of hours that follow them with song 



/ 



ptittOr 117 

Till their feet flag and voices fail, 
And lips that were so loud so long 

Learn silence, or a wearier wail ; 

So keen is change, and time so strong, 

To weave the robes of life and rend 

And weave again till life have end. 

iBut weak is change, but strengthless time. 
To take the light from heaven, or climb 
The hills of heaven with wasting feet. 
Songs they can stop that earth found meet. 
But the stars keep their ageless rhyme ; 
j Flowers they can slay that spring thought 
' sweet, 

( But the stars keep their spring sublime; 
^ Passions and pleasures can defeat. 

Actions and agonies control, 1 

^ And life and death, Ht^ nrrt thr ^nnl. ) 

«> 

Because man's soul is man's God still,, 
' What wind soever waft his will 

Across the waves of day and night 

To port or shipwreck^ left or right, . 
By shores and shoals of good and ill; 

And still its flame at mainmast height 
I Through the rent air that foam-flakes fill 

Sustains, the indomitable light 
Whence only man hath strength to steer 
Or helm to handle without fear. 



1 1 8 ^rUcc lH^ttM of ^Ininimmr 

,' \Save his own soul's light overhead, \^ 
• iNone leads him, and none ever led,'' 
Across birth's hidden harbour bar. 
Past youth where shoreward shallows are. 
Through age that drives on toward the red 

Vast void of sunset hailed from far. 
To the equal waters of the dead j 
Z' Save his own soul he hath no star, 
/ And sinks, except his own soul guide, 
^ Helmless in middle turn of tide. 



No blast of air or fire of sun * 

Puts out the light whereby we run 

With girdled loins our lamplit race. 

And each from each takes heart of grace 
And spirit till his turn be done. 

And light of face from each man's face 
In whom the light of trust is one ; 

Since only souls that keep their place 
By their own light, and watch things roU, 
And stand, have light for any soul. 

A little time we gain from time 
To set our seasons in some chime. 
For harsh or sweet or loud or low. 
With seasons . played out long ago 
And souls that in their time and prime 
Took part with summer or with snow, 



f»itm 119 

Lived abject lives out or sublime, 

And had their chance of seed to sow 
For service or disservice done 
To those days dead and this their son. 

A little time that we may fill 

Or with such good works or such ill 

As loose the bonds or make them strong 

Wherein all manhood suffers wrong. 
By rose-hung river and light-foot rill 

There are who rest not ; who think long 
Till they discern as from a hill 

At the sun's hour of morning song, 
Known of souls only^ and those souls free, 
The sacred spaces of the sea. 



SIENA 

Inside this northern summer's fold 
-The fields are full of naked gold. 
Broadcast from heaven on lairds it loves ; 
The green veiled air is full of doves ; 
Soft leaves that sift the sunbeams let 
Light on the small warm grasses wet 
Fall in short broken kisses sweet. 
And break again like waves that beat 
Round the sun's feet. 



1 20 fstlttt ^otmg of ^toinimme 

But I, for all this English mirth 
Of golden-shod and dancing days, 

And the old green-girt sweet-hearted earth 
Desire what here no spells can raise. 

Far hence, with holier heavens above, 

The lovely city of my love 

Bathes deep in the sun-satiate air 

That flows round no fair thing more fair 

Her beauty bare. 

There the utter sky is holier, there 
More pure the intense white height of air, 
More clear men's eyes that mine would meet, 
And the sweet springs of things more sweet. 
There for this one warm note of doves 
A clamour of a thousand loves 
Storms the night's ear, the day's assails. 
From the tempestuous nightingales, 
And fills, and fails. 

O gracious city well-beloved, 

Italian, and a maiden crowned, 
Siena, my feet are no more moved 

Toward thy strange-shapen mountain-bound : 
But my heart in me turns and moves, 
O lady loveliest of my loves. 
Toward thee, to lie before thy feet 
And gaze from thy fair fountain-seat 
Up the sheer street ; 



f»itm 121 

And the house midway hanging see 
That saw Saint Catherine bodUy, 
Felt on its floors l^jcr sweet feet move, 
And the live light of fiery love 
Bum from her beautiful strange face, 
As in the sanguine sacred place 
Where in pure hands she took the head 
Severed, and with pure lips still red 
Kissed the lips dead. 

For years through, sweetest of the saints. 
In quiet without cease she wrought. 

Till cries of men and fierce complaints 
From outward moved her maiden thought ; 

And prayers she heard and sighs toward France, 

^^ God, send us back deliverance. 

Send back thy servant, lest we die ! " 

With an exceeding bitter cry 

They smote the sky. 

Then in her sacred saving hands 
She took the sorrows of the lands. 
With maiden palms she lifted up 
The sick time's blood-embittered cup. 
And in her virgin garment furled 
The faint limbs of a wounded world. 
Clothed with calm love and clear desire. 
She went forth in her soul's attire, 
A missive fire. 



1 2 2 Select If^ttM of ^feDinbttme 

Across the might of men that strove 
It shone, and over heads of kings ; 

And molten in red flames of#Iove 

Were swords and many monstrous things ; 

And shields were lowered, and snapt were spears, 

And sweeter-tuned the clamorous years ; 

And faith came back, and peace, that were 

Fled ; for she bade, saying, " Thou, God's heir, 

Hast thou no care ? 

** Lo, men lay waste thine heritage 
Still, and much heathen people rage 
Against thee, and devise vain things. 
What comfort in the face of kings. 
What counsel is there ? Turn thine eyes 
And thine heart from them in like wise; 
Turn thee unto thine holy place 
To help us that of God for grace 
Require thy face. 

** For who shall hear us if not thou 

In a strange land ? what doest thou there ? 

Thy sheep are spoiled, and the ploughers plough 
Upon us ; why hast thou no care 

For all this, and beyond strange hills 

Liest unregardful what snow chills 

Thy foldless flock, or what rains beat ? 

Lo, in thine ears, before thy feet. 

Thy lost sheep bleat. 



f»itm 123 

** And strange men feed on faultless lives. 
And there is blood, and men put knives, 
Shepherd, unto the young lamb's throat j 
And one hath eaten,' and one smote. 
And one had hunger and is fed 
Full of the flesh of these, and red 
With blood of these as who drinks wine. 
And God knoweth, who hath sent thee a sign. 
If these were thine." 

But the Pope's heart within him burned. 
So that he rose up, seeing the sign. 

And came among them ^ but she turned 
Back to her daily way divine. 

And fed her faith with silent things. 

And lived her life with curbed white wings. 

And mixed herself with heaven and died : 

And now on the sheer city-side 

Smiles like a bride. 

You see her in the fresh clear gloom. 
Where walls shut out the flame and bloom 
Of full-breathed summer, and the roof 
Keeps the keen ardent air aloof 
And sweet weight of the violent sky : 
There bodily beheld on high. 
She seems as one hearing in tune 
Heaven within heaven, at heaven's full noon. 
In sacred swoon : 



1 24 fstltct If^tms of ^feDtobttme 

A solemn swoon of sense that aches 
With imminent blind heat of heaven, 

While all the wide-eyed spirit wakes, 
Vigilant of the supreme Seven, 

Whose choral flames in God's sight move, 

Made unendurable with love. 

That without wind or blast or breath 

Compels all things through life and death 

Whither God saith. 

There on the dim side-chapel wall 
Thy mighty touch memorial, 
Bazzi, raised up, for ages dead. 
And fixed for us her heavenly head : 
And, rent with plaited thorn and rod. 
Bared the live likeness of her God 
To men's eyes turning from strange lands. 
Where, pale from thine immortal hands, 
Christ wounded stands ; 

And the blood blots his holy hair 

And white brows over hungering eyes 
That plead against us, and the fair 

Mute lips forlorn of words or sighs 
In the great torment that bends down 
His bruised head with the bloomless crown, 
White as the unfruitful thorn-flower, 
A God beheld in dreams that were 
Beheld of her. 



&tm 125 

In vain on all these sins and years 
Falls the sad blood, fall the slow tears ; 
In vain poured forth as watersprings, 
Priests, on your altars, and ye, kings, 
About your seats of sanguine gold ; 
Still your God, spat upon and sold. 
Bleeds at your hands ; but now is gone 
All his flock from him saving one ^ 
Judas alone. 

Surely your race it was that he, 

O men signed backward with his name. 

Beholding in Gethsemane 

Bled the red bitter sweat of shame. 

Knowing how the word of Christian should 

Mean to men evil and not good. 

Seem to men shameful for your sake. 

Whose lips, for all the prayers they make, 

Man's blood must slake. 

But blood nor tears ye love not, you 
That my love leads my longing to. 
Fair as the world's old faith of flowers, 
O golden goddesses of ours ! 
From what Idalian rose-pleasance 
Hath Aphrodite bidden glance 
The lovelier lightnings of your feet ? 
From what sweet Paphian sward or seat 
Led you more sweet ? 



1 26 Select }l^ma of ^tDmbume 

O white three sisters, three as one, 

With flowerlike arms for flowery bands 

Your linked limbs glitter like the sun, 
And time lies beaten at your hands. 

Time and wild years and wars and men 

Pass, and ye care not whence or when ; 

With calm lips over sweet for scorn. 

Ye watch night pass, O children born 

Of the old world morn. 

Ah, in this strange and shrineless place. 
What doth a goddess, what a Grace, 
Where no Greek worships her shrined limbs 
With wreaths and Cytherean hymns ? 
Where no lute makes luxurious 
The adoring airs in Amathus, 
Till the maid, knowing her mother near. 
Sobs with love, aching with sweet fear ? 
What do ye hear ? 

For the outer land is sad, and wears 

A raiment of a flaming fire ; 
And the fierce fruitless mountain stairs 

Climb, yet seem wroth and loth to aspire. 
Climb, and break, and are broken down. 
And through their clefts and crests the town 
Looks west and sees the dead sun lie. 
In sanguine death that stains the sky 
With angry dye. 



9sitm 127 

And from the war-worn wastes without 

In twilight, in the time of doubt, 

One sound comes of one whisper, where 

Moved with low motions of slow air 

The great trees nigh the castle swing 

In the sad coloured evening; 

" Ricorditi di mey che son 

La Pia " — that small sweet word alone 

Is not yet gone. 

" Ricorditi di me " — the sound 
Sole out of deep dumb days remote 

Across the fiery and fatal ground 
Comes tender as a hurt bird's note 

To where a ghost with empty hands, 

A woe-worn ghost, her palace stands 

In the mid city, where the strong 

Bells turn the sunset air to song. 

And the towers throng. 

With other face, with speech the same, 

A mightier maiden's likeness came 

Late among mourning men that slept, 

A sacred ghost that went and wept. 

White as the passion-wounded Lamb, 

Saying, " Ah, remember me, that am 

Italia." (From deep sea to sea 

Earth heard, earth knew her, that this was she.) 

" Ricorditi:' 



1 28 fstUtt lH^tmg of fsioinbamt 

^^ Love made me of all things fairest thing, 
And Hate unmade me; this knows he 
Who with God's sacerdotal ring 

Enringed mine hand, espousing me." 
Yea, in thy myriad-mooded woe, 
Yea, Mother, hast thou not said so ? 
Have not our hearts within us stirred, 
O thou most holiest, at thy word ? 
Have we not heard ? 

As this dead tragic land that she 
Found deadly, such was time to thee ; 
Years passed thee withering in the red 
Maremma, years that deemed thee dead, 
Ages that sorrowed or that scorned ; 
And all this while though all they mourned 
Thou sawest the end of things unclean. 
And the unborn that should see thee a queen. 
Have we not seen ? 

The weary poet, thy sad son. 
Upon thy soil, under thy skies, 

Saw all Italian things save one — 
Italia ; this thing missed his eyes ; 

The old mother-might, the breast, the face 

That reared, that lit the Roman race ; 

This not Leopardi saw ; but we. 

What is it. Mother, that we see. 

What if not thee ? 



fsUm tig 

Look thou from Siena southward home. 
Where the priest's pall hangs rent on Rome, 
And through the red rent swaddling-bands 
Toward thine she strains her labouring hands. 
Look thou and listen, and let be 
All the dead quick, all the bond free ; 
In the blind eyes let there be sight 
In the eighteen centuries of the night 
Let there be light. 

Bow down the beauty of thine head. 
Sweet, and with lips of living breath 

Kiss thy sons sleeping, and thy dead. 
That there be no more sleep or death. 

Give us thy light, thy might, thy love, 

Whom thy face seen afar above 

Drew to thy feet ; and when, being free. 

Thou hast blest thy children born to thee, 

Bless also me. 

Me that when others played or slept 
Sat still under thy cross and wept ; 
Me who so early and unaware 
Felt fall on bent bared brows and hair 

?['hin drops of the overflowing flood !) 
he bitter blessing of thy blood ; 
The sacred shadow of thy pain. 
Thine, the true maiden-mother, slain 
And raised again. 



1 30 ^Am pontic of l^tDinbttme 

Me consecrated, if I might, 

To praise thee, or to love at least, 

O mother of all men's dear delight 

Thou madest a choral-souled boy-priest. 

Before my lips had leave to sing, 

Or my hands hardly strength to cling 

About the intolerable tree 

Whereto they had nailed my heart and thee 

And said, " Let be." 

For to thee too the high Fates gave 
Grace to be sacrificed and save. 
That being arisen, in the equal sun, 
God and the People should be one ; 
By those red roads thy footprints trod, 
Man more divine, more human God, 
Saviour ; that where no light was known 
But darkness, and a daytime flown. 
Light should be shown. 

Let there be light, O Italy ! 

For our feet falter in the night, 
O lamp of living years to be, 

O light of God, let there be light ! 
Fill with a love keener than flame 
Men sealed in spirit with thy name. 
The cities and the Roman skies. 
Where men with other than man's eyes 
Saw thy sun rise. 



)perituie ac Catiaiier 131 

For theirs thou wast and thine were they 
Whose names outshine thy very day j 
For they are thine and theirs thou art 
Whose blood beats living in man's heart. 
Remembering ages fled and dead 
Wherein for thy sake these men bled ; 
They that saw Trebia, they that see 
Mentana, they in years to be 
That shall see thee. 

For thine are all of us, and ours 

Thou ; till the seasons bring to birth 

A perfect people, and all the powers 
Be with them that bear fruit on earth ; 

Till the inner heart of man be one 

With freedom, and the sovereign sun ; 

And Time, in likeness of a guide. 

Lead the Republic as a bride 

Up to God's side. 



PERINDE AC CADAVER 

In a vision Liberty stood 

By the childless charm-stricken bed 
Where, barren of glory and good. 
Knowing nought if she would not or would, 

England slept with her dead. 



132 ^lect :|^oetttf of j^tDinbttme 

Her face that the foam had whitened, 

Her hands that were strong to strive, 
Her eyes whence battle had lightened, 
Over all was a drawn shroud tightened 
To bind her asleep and alive. 

She turned and laughed in her dream 

With grey lips arid and cold ; 
She saw not the face as a beam 
Bum on her, but only a gleam 

Through her sleep as of new-stamped gold. 

But the goddess, with terrible tears 
In the light of her down-drawn eyes. 

Spake fire in the dull sealed ears; 
^^ Thou, sick with slumbers and fears. 
Wilt thou sleep now indeed or arise ? 

^^ With dreams and with words and with light 

Memories and empty desires 
Thou hast wrapped thyself round all night ; 
Thou hast shut up thine heart from the right. 

And warmed thee at burnt-out fires. 

" Yet once if I smote at thy gate. 

Thy sons would sleep not, but. heard; 
O thou that wast found so great. 
Art thou smitten with folly or fate 

That thy sons have forgotten my word ? 



:priiitf ac Caimber 133 

" O Cromwell's mother, O breast 
That suckled Milton ! thy name 
That was beautiful then, that was blest, 
Is it wholly discrowned and deprest, 
Trodden under by sloth into shame ? 

" Why wilt thou hate me and die ? 

For none can hate me and live. 
What ill have I done to thee ? why 
Wilt thou turn from me fighting, and fly. 

Who would follow thy feet and forgive ? 

^^ Thou hast seen me stricken, and said. 
What is it to me ? I am strong : 
Thou hast seen me bowed down on my dead 
And laughed and lifted thine head. 
And washed thine hands of my wrong. 

^^ Thou hast put out the soul of thy sight ; 

Thou hast sought to my foemen as friend, 
To my traitors that kiss me and smite. 
To the kingdoms and empires of night 

That begin with the darkness, and end. 

^ Turn thee, awaken, arise. 

With the light that is risen on the lands, 
With the change of the fresh-coloured skies ; 
Set thine eyes on mine eyes. 

Lay thy hands in my hands." 



1 34 ^\ta Ij^tma of j^tDitibtmir 

She moved and mourned as she heard, 

Sighed and shifted her place, 
As the wells of her slumber were stirred 
By the music and wind of the word, 

Then turned and covered her face, 

*' Ah," she said in her sleep, 

^^ Is my work not done with and done ? 
Is there corn for my sickle to reap ? 
And strange is the pathway, and steep. 
And sharp overhead is the sun. 

'' I have done thee service enough. 
Loved thee enough in my day ; 
Now nor hatred nor love 
Nor hardly remembrance thereof 
Lives in me to lighten my way. 

'' And is it not well with us here ? 

Is change as good as is rest ? 
What hope should move me, or fear. 
That eye should open or ear. 

Who have long since won what is best ? 

'' Where among us are such things 
As turn men's hearts into hell ? 
Have we not queens without stings. 
Scotched princes, and fangless kings ? 
Yea," she said, " we are well. 



^petinor ac Caimiirr 13s 

" We have filed the teeth of the snake 
Monarchy, how should it bite ? 

Should the slippery slow thing wake, 

It will not sting for my sake ; 
Yea," she said, " I do right." 

So spake she, drunken with dreams. 

Mad ; but again in her ears 
A voice as of storm-swelled streams 
Spake ; *' No brave shame then redeems 

Thy lusts of sloth and thy fears ? 

^^ Thy poor lie slain of thine hands, 

Their starved limbs rot in thy sight; 

As a shadow the ghost of thee stands 

Among men living and lands. 
And stirs not leftward or right. 

^^ Freeman he is not, but slave. 

Who stands not out on my side ; 
His own hand hollows his grave. 
Nor strength is in me to save 
Where strength is none to abide. 

^ Time shall tread on his name 

That was written for honour of old, 

Who hath taken in change for fame 

Dust, and silver, and shame, 
Ashes, and iron, and gold." 



136 ^lect ^^onM of j^tpitdmnte 

THE PILGRIMS 

Who is your lady of love, O ye that pass 
Singing ? and is it for sorrow of that which was 
That ye sing sadly, or dream of what shall 
be? 
For gladly at once and sadly it seems ye 
sing. 

— Our lady of love by you is unbeholden ; 
For hands she hath hone, nor eyes, nor lips^nor 

golden 
Treasure of hair, nor face nor form, but we 
That love, we know her more fair than 
anything. 

— Is she a queen, having great gifts to give ? 

— Yea, these ; that whoso hath seen her shall 

not live 
Except he serve her sorrowing, with strange 
pain. 
Travail and bloodshedding and bitterer 
tears ; 
And when she bids die he shall surely die. 
And he shall leave all things under the sky 
And go forth naked under sun and rain 
And work and wait and watch out all his 
years. 



tD^)^agrtoi« 137 

X . — Hath she on earth no place of habitation ? 
; — Age to age calling, nation answering nation, 
Cries out. Where is she ? and there is none 
to say ; 
For if she be not in the spirit of men. 
For if in the inward soul she hath no plac e^ Ar^ 

In vain they cry u gtn her, seeking Jier facg, / ' 

In vain their mouths make much of her ; for 

Cry with y^m ton gue^, till the heart lives 
again. 

•4 — O ye that follow, and have ye no repentance ? 
For on your brows is written a mortal sentence, 
' An hieroglyph of sorrow , a fiery sign. 

That in your lives ye shall not pause or rest, 

Nor have the sure sweet common love, nor keep 

Friends and safe days, nor joy of life nor sleep. 

^ — These have we not, who have one thing, 

the divine 

Face and clear eyes of faith and fruitful 

^ breast. 

^* — And ye sh^ll die before jour thrones be won. 
^. — Yea, and the changed world anJtheiRB'eral gu n 
Shall move and shine without us, and we lie 
Dead ; but if she too move on earth and 
live. 



1 38 ^^Ottt Tj^ttM of j^tDinbttnte 

But if the old world with all the nIH ir^ns ''^"^ 
Laugh and give thanks, shall we be not content ? 
Nay, we shall rather live, we shall not die. 
Life being so little and death so good to 
give. 

— And these men shall forget you. -^ Yea, but 

we 
Shall be a part of the earth and the ancient sea, 
And heaven-high air august, and awful fire. 
And all things good ; and no man's heart 
shall beat 
But somewhat in it of our blood once shed 
Shall quiver and quicken, as now in us the dead 
Blood of men slain and the old same life's 
desire ^ 

Plants in their f^ty foo'^p""^^^ our fresh 
feet. 

< — But ye that might be clothed with all things 
pleasant. 
Ye are foolish that put off the fair soft present. 
That clothe yourselves with the coldTuturg 
.aix-^ 
When mother and father and tender sister 
and brother 
^ And the old live love that was s hall hf» as y^^ 
" HmsU and nojffuk of loving life shall be. 



tlP^e M;rittu( 139 

<^ — She shall be yet who is more than all these 
were, 
Than sister or wife or father unto us or 
mother. 

>" — Is this worth life, is this, to win for wages ? 
Lo, the dead mouths of thef^iwful grey-grown, 
ages. 
The venerable, in the past that is their prison, 
In the outer darkness, in the unopening 
grave. 
Laugh, knowing how many as ye now say have 

said. 
How many, and all are fallen, are fallen and 
dead : 
Shall ye dead rise, and these dead have not 

risen ? 
■^ — Not wc but she, who is tender and swift 
to save. 

s. — Are ye not weary and faint not by the way, 
Seemg night by night devoured of day by day. 
Seeing hour by hour consumed in sleepless 
fire? 
Sleepless : and ye too, when shall ye too 
sleep? 
y — We are weary in heart and head, in hands 
and feet, 



140 jMftt Tjj^otvni at ^Moinbum^ 

And surely more than all things sleep were sweet. 
Than all things save the inexorable desire 
Which whoso knoweth shall neither faint 
nor weep. 

\, — Is this so sweet that onewerefain to follow ? 
Is this so sure where all men*s hopes are hollow^ 
Even this your dream, that by much tribula- 
tion 
Ye shall make whole fl awed hearts , and 
trowed necks straight 7"* 
' — Nay though our life were blind, our jdcatk 
jwere fruitless, 
Not therefore^ wereThc whole world's high hopc^ 
rootless ; 
But man to man, nation would turn to nation. 
And the old life live, and the old great 
word be great. 

/. — Pass on then and pass by us and let us be. 
For what light think ye after life to see ? 
And if the world fare better will ye know ? 
And if man triumph who shall seek you 
and say ? 
— Enough of light is this for one life's span. 
That all men born are mortal, but not man : 
And we men bring death liv^s by night to sow. 
That man may reap and eat and live by day. 



jbitper instmina IBriij^toni* hi 



SUPER FLUMINA BABYLONIS 

By the waters of Babylon we sat down and 
wept, 

Remembering thee. 
That for ages of agony hast endured, and slept, 

And wouldst not see. 

By the waters of Babylon we stood up and 
sang, 

Considering thee. 
That a blast of deliverance in the darkness rang. 

To set thee free. 

And with trumpets and thunderings and with 
morning song 
Came up the light ; 
And thy spirit uplifted thee to forget thy 
wrong 
As day doth night. 

And thy sons were dejected not any more, as 
then 
When thou wast shamed; 
When thy lovers went heavily without heart, as 
men 
Whose life was maimed. 



142 ^Irct :|^onii0 of j^tDmbtttne 

In the desolate distances, with a great desire, 

For thy love's sake. 
With our hearts going back to thee, they were 
filled with fire. 

Were nigh to break. 

It was said to us : *' Verily ye arc great of heart. 

But ye shall bend ; 
Ye are bondmen and bondwomen, to be scourged 
and smart, 

To toil and tend." 

And with harrows men harrowed us, and sub- 
dued with spears. 
And crushed with shame ; 
And the summer and winter was, and the length 
of years. 
And no change came. 

By the rivers of Italy, by the sacred streams. 

By town, by tower. 
There was feasting with revelling, there was 
sleep with dreams. 

Until thine hour. 

And they slept and they rioted on their rose- 
hung beds. 
With mouths on flame. 



^ttprr iHtttnina IBabi^Umia 143 

And with love-locks vine-chapleted, and with 
rose-crowned heads 
And robes of shame. 

And they knew not their forefathers, nor the 
hills and streams 
And words of power, 
Nor the gods that were good to them, but with 
songs and dreams 
Filled up their hour. 

By the rivers of Italy, by the dry streams' 
beds, 
When thy time came. 
There was casting of crowns from them, 
from their young men's heads. 
The crowns of shame. 

By the horn of Eridanus, by the Tiber mouth. 

As thy day rose. 
They arose up and girded them to the north 
and south. 

By seas, by snows. 

As a water in January the frost confines. 

Thy kings bound thee ; 
As a water in April is, in the new-blown vines. 

Thy sons made free. 



144 ^fktt lH^amai of 9stain\nitm 

And thy lovers that looked for thee, and that 
mourned from far. 

For thy sake dead. 
We rejoiced in the light of thee, in the signal star 

Above thine head. 

In thy grief had we followed thee, in thy pas- 
sion loved. 
Loved in thy loss ; 
In thy shame we stood fast to thee, with thy 
pangs were moved. 
Clung to thy cross. 

By the hillside of Calvary we beheld thy blood, 

Thy bloodred tears, 
As a mother's in bitterness, an unebbing flood. 

Years upon years. 

And the north was Gethsemane, without leaf 
or bloom, 
A garden sealed ; 
And the south was Aceldama, for a sanguine 
fume 
Hid all the field. 

By the stone of the sepulchre we returned to 
weep. 
From far, from prison ; 



fswpn ifhttttiiia HBaln^loitto 145 

And the guards by it keeping it we beheld 
asleep. 
But thou wast risen. 

And an angel's similitude by the unsealed grave. 

And by the stone : 
And the voice was angelical, to whose words 
God gave 

Strength like his own. 

^^ Lo, the graveclotbes of Italy that are folded 
up 
In the grave's gloom ! 
And the guards as men wrought upon with a 
charmed cup. 
By the open tomb. 

^And her body most beautiful, and her shining 
head. 

These are not here ; 
For your mother, for Italy, is not surely dead : 

Have ye no fear. 

^As of old time she spake to you, and you 
hardly heard. 

Hardly took heed. 
So now also she saith to you, yet another word. 

Who is risen indeed. 



146 &tittt )ponti0 of ^toinbume 

^^ By my saying she saith to you, io your ears she 
saith. 
Who hear these things, 
Put no trust in men's royalties, nor in great 
men's breath. 
Nor words of kings. 

^^ For the life of them vanishes and is no more 
seen. 
Nor no more known ; 
Nor shall any remember him if a crown hath 
been. 
Or where a throne. 

^^ Unto each man his handiwork, unto each his 
crown, 
The just Fate gives j 
Whoso takes the world's life on him and his 
own lays down. 
He, dying so, lives. 

" Whoso bears the whole heaviness of the 
wronged world's weight 
And puts it by. 
It is well with him suffering, though he face 
man's fate ; 
How should he die ? 



^tiper ^uttiiita IBabt^kmla 147 

^Seeing death has no part in him any more, no 
power 

Upon his head ; 
He has bought his eternity with a little hour. 

And is not dead. 

" For an hour, if ye look for him, he is no more 
found. 
For one hour's space ; 
Then ye lift up your eyes to him and behold 
him crowned, 
A deathless face. 

" On the mountains of memory, by the world's 
well-springs. 
In all men's eyes. 
Where the light of the life of him is on all past 
things. 
Death only dies. 

" Not the light that was quenched for us, nor 
the deeds that were. 
Nor the ancient days. 
Nor the sorrows not sorrowful, nor the face 
most fair 
Of perfect praise." 

So the angel of Italy's resurrection said. 
So yet he saith ; 



148 j^rlect l^oetitf of ^Moitiimme 

So the son of her suiFering, that from breasts 
nigh dead 
Drew life, not death. 

That the pavement of Golgotha should be white 
as snow, 
Not red, but white ; 
That the waters of Babylon should no longer 
flow. 
And men see light. 



MATER DOLOROSA 

Citoyen, lui dit Enjolraa, ma m^re, c*e8t la R6publique. — Lds 
Miserah/es, 

Who is this that sits by the way, by the wild 

wayside. 
In a rent stained raiment, the robe of a cast-off 

bride. 
In the dust, in the rainfall sitting, with soiled 

feet bare. 
With the night for a garment upon her, with 

torn wet hair ? 
She is fairer of face than the daughters of men, 

and her eyes. 
Worn through with her tears, are deep as the 

depth of skies. 



ipecer SPoloroMi 149 

This is she for whose sake being fallen, for 

whose abject sake, 
Earth groans in the blackness of darkness, and 

men's hearts break. 
This is she for whose love, having seen her, the 

men that were 
Poured life out as water, and shed their souls 

upon air. 
This is she for whose glory their years were 

counted as foam ; 
Whose face was a light upon Greece, was a 

fire upon Rome. 

Is it now not surely a vain thing, a foolish and 
vain. 

To sit down by her, mourn to her, serve her, 
partake in the pain ? 

She is grey with the dust of time on his mani- 
fold ways. 

Where her faint feet stumble and falter through 
year-long days. 

Shall she help us at all, O fools, give fruit or 
give fame. 

Who herself is a name despised, a rejected name ? 

We have not served her for guerdon. If any do so. 
That his mouth may be sweet with such honey, 
we care not to know. 



1 50 f^lttt }^tmg of S^inbttme 

We have drunk from a wine-unsweetened, a 

perilous cup, 
A draught very bitter. The kings of the earth 

stood up. 
And the rulers took counsel together to smite 

her and slay ; 
And the blood of her wounds is given us to 

drink to-day. 

Can these bones live ? or the leaves that are 

dead leaves bud ? 
Or the dead blood drawn from her veins be in 

your veins blood ? 
Will ye gather up water again that was drawn 

and shed ? 
In the blood is the life of the veins, and her 

veins are dead. 
For the lives that are over are over, and past 

things past; 
She had her day, and it is not ; was first, and is 

last. 

Is it nothing unto you then, all ye that pass 

If her breath be left in her lips, if she live now 

or die ? 
Behold now, O people, and say if she be not 

fair. 



ipecer flPoloroAi 151 

Whom your fathers followed to find her, with 

praise and prayer. 
And rejoiced, having found her, though roof 

they had none nor bread ; 
But ye care not ; what is it to you if her day 

be dead? 

It was well with our fathers ; their sound was 

in all men's lands. 
There was fire in their hearts, and the hunger 

of fight in their hands. 
Naked and strong they went forth in her 

strength like flame. 
For her love's and her name's sake of old, her 

republican name. 
But their children, by kings made quiet, by 

priests made wise. 
Love better the heat of their hearths than the 

light of her eyes. 

Are they children of these thy children indeed, 
who have sold, 

golden goddess, the light of thy face for 
gold? 

Are they sons indeed of the sons of thy day- 
spring of hope. 

Whose lives are in fief of an emperor, whose ; 
souls of a Pope ? 



152 $telm Jl^tmg 0f jMoinlmnie 

Hide then thine head, O beloved; thy time is done; 
Thy kingdom is broken in heaven, and blind thy 
sun. 

What sleep is upon you, to dream she indeed 

shall rise. 
When the hopes are dead in her heart as the 

tears in her eyes ? 
If ye sing of her dead will she stir ? if ye weep 

for her, weep ? 
Come away now, leave her ; what hath she to 

do but sleep ? 
But ye that mourn are alive, and have years to 

be ; 
And life is good, and the world is wiser than 

we. 

Yea, wise is the world and mighty, with years 
to give. 

And years to promise ; but how long now shall 
it live ? 

And foolish and poor is faith, and her ways are 
bare. 

Till she find the way of the sun, and the morn- 
ing air. 

In that hour shall this dead face shine as the 
face of the sun. 

And the soul of man and her soul and the 
world's be one. 



j|9atrr tD^mptwIto > 153 

MATER TRIUMPHALIS 

Mother of man's time-travelling generations. 
Breath of his nostrils, heartblood of his heart, 

God above all Gods worshipped of all nations, 
Li^t above light, law beyond law, thou art. 

Thy face is as a sword smiting in sunder 
Shadows and chains and dreams and iron 
things; 

The sea is dumb before thy face, the thunder 
Silent, the skies are narrower than thy wings. 

Angels and Gods, spirit and sense, thou takest 

In thy right hand as drops of dust or dew ; 
The .temples and the towers of time thou 
breakest. 
His thoughts and words and works, to make 
them new. 

All we have wandered from thy ways, have 
hidden 
Eyes from thy glory and ears from calls they 
heard; 
Called of thy trumpets vainly, called and chidden. 
Scourged of thy speech and wounded of thy 
word. 



1 54 Select Jl^tme of ^lidmnte 

We have known thee and have not known thee ; 
stood beside thee, 
Felt thy lips breathe, set foot where thy feet 
trod. 
Loved and renounced and worshipped and de- 
nied thee. 
As though thou wert but as another God. 

** One hour for sleep," we said, " and yet one 
other ; 
All day we served her, and who shall serve 
by night ? " 
Not knowing of thee, thy face not knowing, O 
mother, 
O light wherethrough the darkness is as light. 

Men that forsook thee hast thou not forsaken. 
Races of men that knew not hast thou known ; 

Nations that slept thou hast doubted not to waken, 
Worshippers of strange Gods to make thine 
own. 

All old grey histories hiding thy clear features, 

O secret spirit and sovereign, all men's tales. 
Creeds woven of men thy children and thy 
creatures. 
They have woven for vestures of thee and 
for veils. 



JItater tIMwnpljisiig iss 

Thine hands, without election or exemption. 
Feed all men fainting from false peace or 
strife, 

O thou, the resurrection and redemption. 
The godhead and the manhood and the life. 

Thy wings shadow the waters ; thine eyes 
lighten 
The horror of the hollows of the night ; 
The depths of the earth and the dark places 
brighten 
Under thy feet, whiter than fire is white. 

Death is subdued to thee, and hell's bands 
broken ; 
Where thou art only is heaven ; who hears 
not thee. 
Time shall not hear him ; when men's names are 
spoken, 
A nameless sign of death shall his name be. 

Deathless shall be the death, the name be name- 
less ; 
Sterile of stars his twilight time of breath ; 
With fire of hell shall shame consume him 
shameless, 
And dying, all the night darken his death. 



156 $tele(t poetitf of jMDiitlmme 

The years are as thy garments, the world's ages 
As sandals bound and loosed from thy swift 
feet; 
Time serves before thee, as one that hath for 
wages 
Praise or shame only, bitter words or sweet. 

Thou sayest " Well done," and all a century 
kindles ; 

Again thou sayest ^^ Depart from sight of me," 
And all the light of face of all men dwindles. 

And the age is as the broken glass of thee. 

The night is as a seal set on men's faces. 
On faces fallen of men that take no light. 

Nor give light in the deeps of the dark places. 
Blind things, incorporate with the body of 
night. 

Their souls are serpents winterbound and 
frozen, 
Their shame is as a tame beast, at their feet 
Couched; their cold lips deride thee and thy 
chosen. 
Their lying lips made grey with dust for meat. 

Then when their time is full and days run over, 
The splendour of thy sudden brow made bare 



ipecer tEPrittmiitialto 157 

Darkens the morning ; thy bared hands uncover 
The veils of light and night and the awful 
air. 

And the world naked as a new-bom maiden 
Stands virginal and splendid as at birth, 

With all thine heaven of all its light unladen, 
Of all its love unburdened all thine earth. 

For the utter earth and the utter air of heaven 
And the extreme depth is thine and the ex- 
treme height ; 

Shadows of things and veils of ages riven 
Are as men's kings unkingdomed in thy sight. 

Through the iron years, the centuries brazen- 
gated. 
By the ages' barred impenetrable doors. 
From the evening to the morning have we 
waited. 
Should thy foot haply sound on the awful 
floors. 

The floors untrodden of the sun's feet glimmer. 
The star-unstricken pavements of the night ; 

Do the lights burn inside ? the lights wax dim- 
mer 
On festal faces withering out of sight. 



1 58 j^rlect Jl^tmt of ^tolnlmnte 

The crowned heads lose the light on them ; it 
may be 

Dawn is at hand to smite the loud feast dumb ; 
To blind the torch-lit centuries till the day be, 

The feasting kingdoms till thy kingdom come. 

Shall it not come ? deny they or dissemble. 
Is it not even as lightning from on high 
Now ? and though many a soul close eyes and 
tremble. 
How should they tremble at all who love thee 
as I? 

I am thine harp between thine hands, O mother ! 

All my strong chords are strained with love 
of thee. 
We grapple in love and wrestle, as each with other 

Wrestle the wind and the unreluctant sea. 

I am no courtier of thee sober-suited. 
Who loves a little for a little pay. 

Me not thy winds and storms nor thrones dis- 
rooted 
Nor molten crowns nor thine own sins dismay. 

Sinned hast thou sometime, therefore art thou 
sinless ; 
Stained hast thou been, who art therefore with- 
out stain ; 



9atn: HMttmplidto 159 

Even as man's soul is kin to thee, but kinless 
Thou, in whose womb Time sows the all- 
various grain. 

I do not bid thee spare me, O dreadful mother ! 

I pray thee that thou spare not, of thy grace. 
How were it with me then, if ever another 

Should come to stand before thee in this my 
place? 

I am the trumpet at thy lips, thy clarion 
Full of thy cry, sonorous with thy breath ; 

The grave of souls born worms and creeds grown 
carrion 
Thy blast of judgment fills with fires of death. 

Thou art the player whose organ*keys are thun- 
ders, > 

And I beneath thy foot the pedal prest ; 
Thou art the ray whereat the rent night sunders. 

And I the cloudlet borne upon thy breast. 

I shall burn up before thee, pass and perish. 

As haze in sunrise on the red sea-line ; 
But thou from dawn to sunsetting shalt cher- 
ish 
The thoughts that led and souls that lighted 
mine. 



i6o ^lect ]|loeiiw of IMfrfnlmme 

Reared between night and noon and truth and 
error, 
Each twilight-travelling bird that trills and 
screams ^ 

Sickens at midday, nor can face for terror 
The imperious heaven's inevitable extremes. 

I have no spirit of skill with equal fingers 
At sign to sharpen or to slacken strings ; 

I keep no time of song with gold-perched sing- 
ers 
And chirp of linnets on the wrists of kings. 

I am thy storm-thrush of the days that darken. 
Thy petrel in the foam that bears thy bark 

To port through night and tempest; if thou 
hearken. 
My voice is in thy heaven before the lark. 

My song is in the mist that hides thy morning. 
My cry is up before the day for thee ; 

I have heard thee and beheld thee and give 
warning. 
Before thy wheels divide the sky and sea. 

Birds shall wake with thee voiced and feathered 
fairer. 
To see in summer what I see in spring ; 



jpater tIMamfiljgtis i6i 

I have eyes and heart to endure thee, O thunder- 
bearer, 
And they shall be who shall have tongues to 
sing. 

I have love at least, and have not fear, and part 
not 

From thine unnavigable and wingless way ; 
Thou tarriest, and I have not said thou art not. 

Nor all thy night long have denied thy day. 

Darkness to daylight shall lift up thy paean. 
Hill to hill thunder, vale cry back to vale. 

With wind-notes as of eagles ^schylean. 
And Sappho singing in the nightingale. 

Sung to by mighty sons of dawn and daughters. 

Of this night's songs thine ear shall keep but 

one; 

That supreme song which shook the channelled 

waters. 

And called thee skyward as God calls the sun. 

Come, though all heaven again be fire above thee ; 

Though death before thee come to clear thy 
sky; 
Let us but see in his thy face who love thee ; 

Yea, though thou slay us, arise and let us die. 



LYRICS OF NATURE AND 

LIFE 



BY THE NORTH SEA 

** We tre what tuns and winds and waten make us.** — Landok. 

Sea, windy and sun^ with light and sound and 
breath 
The spirit of man fulfilling — these create 
That joy wherewith marCs life grown passion-- 
ate 

Gains heart to hear and sense to read and faith 

To know the secret word our Mother saith 
In silence y and to secy though doubt wax great y 
Death as the shadow cast by life on fate y 

Passingy whose shade we call the shadow of death. 

Brother y to whom our Mother as to me 
Is dearer than all dreams of days undoniy 

This song I give you of the sovereign three 

That are as life and sleep and death arey one : 

A song the sea-wind gave me from the sea 

Where naught of man* s endures before the sun. 



IBi? t^t i^rtl^ 0ea 163 



BY THE NORTH SEA 



A LAND that is lonelier than ruin ; 

A sea that is stranger than death : 
Far fields that a rose never blew in, 

Wan waste where the winds lack breath ; 
Waste endless and boundless and flowerless 

But of marsh-blossoms fruitless as free : 
Where earth lies exhausted, as powerless 
To strive with the sea. 

II 

Far flickers the flight of the swallows. 

Far flutters the weft of the grass 
Spun dense over desolate hollows 

More pale than the clouds as they pass : 
Thick woven as the weft of a witch is 

Round the heart of a thrall that hath sinned. 
Whose youth and the wrecks of its riches 
Are waifs on the wind. 

Ill 

The pastures are herdless and sheepless 
No pasture or shelter for herds : 



i64 fsdnt ^^itiw of IMDitAitme 

The wind is relentless and sleepless 
And restless and songless the birds ; 

Their cries from afar fall breathless, 
Their wings are as lightnings that flee ; 

For the land has two lords that are deathless 
Death's self, and the sea. 

IV 

These twain, as a king with his fellow. 
Hold converse of desolate speech : 

And her waters are haggard and yellow 
And crass with the scurf of the beach : 

And his garments are grey as the hoary 
Wan sky where the day lies dim : 

And his power is to her, and his glory. 
As hers unto him. 



In the pride of his power she rejoices. 
In her glory he glows and is glad : 
In her darkness the sound of his voice is. 
With his breath she dilates and is mad : 
^^ If thou slay me, O death, and outlive me. 
Yet thy love hath fulfilled me of thee." 
*' Shall I give thee not back if thou give me, 
O sister, O sea ? " 



Wt 01$ 0^ ^ 165 

VI 

And year upon year dawns living, 

And age upon age drops dead : 
And his hand is not weary of giving. 

And the thirst of her heart is not fed : 
And the hunger that moans in her passion, 

And the rage in her hunger that roars, 
As a wolf's that the winter lays lash on. 
Still calls and implores. 

VII 

Her walls have no granite for girder, 
No fortalice fronting her stands : 

But reefs the bloodguiltiest of murder 
Are less than the banks of her sands : 

These number their slain by the thousand ; 
For the ship hath no surety to be. 

When the bank is abreast of her bows and 
Aflush with the sea. 

VIII 

No surety to stand, and no shelter 
To dawn out of darkness but one. 

Out of waters that hurtle and welter 
No succour to dawn with the sun. 

But a rest from the wind as it passes. 
Where, hardly redeemed from the waves. 

Lie thick as the blades of the grasses 
The dead in their graves. 



i66 ^lect Tf^wnt of ^tDinlmnte 

IX 

A multitude noteless of numbers, 

_A& wild weeds cast on an heap : 
And sounder than sleep are their slumbers, 

And softer than song is their sleep ; 
And sweeter than all things and stranger 

The sense, if perchance it may be. 
That the wind is divested of danger 
And scatheless the sea. 



That the roar of the banks they breasted 
Is hurtless as bellowing of herds, 

And the strength of his wings that invested 
The wind, as the strength of a bird's ; 

As the sea-mew's might or the swallow's 
That cry to him back if he cries. 

As over the graves and their hollows 
Days darken and rise. 

XI 

As the souls of the dead men disburdened 
And clean of the sins that they sinned. 

With a lovelier than man's life guerdoned 
And delight as a wave's in the wind. 

And delight as the wind's in the billow. 
Birds pass, and deride with their glee 

The flesh that has dust for its pillow 
As wrecks have the sea. 



^V tire iPtortl^ ^ 167 

xu 

When the days of the sun wax dimmer, 
Wings flash through the dusk like beams ; 

As the clouds in the lit sky glimmer, 
The bird in the graveyard gleams ; 

As the cloud at its wing's edge whitens 
When the clarions of sunrise are heard, 

The graves that the bird's note brightens 
Grow bright for the bird. 

XIII 

As the waves of the numberless waters 
That the wind cannot number who guides 

Are the sons of the shore and the daughters 
Here lulled by the chime of the tides : 

And here in the press of them standing 
We know not if these or if we 

Live truliest, or anchored to landing 

Or drifted to sea. /^^ 

In the valley he named of decision 
No denser were multitudes met 

When the soul of the seer in her v/sion 
Saw nations for doom of them set ; 

Saw darkness in dawn, and the splendour 
Of judgment, the sword and the rod; 

But the doom here of death is more tender 
And gentler the god. 



i68 fsdta Ipotmt of j^toitrimme 

XV 

And gentler the wind from the dreary 
Sea-banks by the waves overlapped, 
Being weary, speaks peace to the weary 
From slopes that the tide-stream hath 
sapped; 
And sweeter than all that we call so 
The seal of their slumber shall be 
Till the graves that embosom them also 
Be sapped of the sea. 



II 



For the heart of the waters is cruel, 
And the kisses are dire of their Ups, 

And their waves are as fire is to fuel 
To the strength of the sea-fiuring ships. 

Though the sea's eye gleam as a jewel 
To the sun's eye back as he dips. 

II 

Though the sun's eye flash to the sea's 
Live light of delight and of laughter. 

And her lips breathe back to the breeze 
The kiss that the wind's lips waft her 

From the sun that subsides, and sees 
No gleam of the storm's dawn after. 



IBi? m^ iptort^ fsta 169 

m 

And the wastes of the wild sea-marches 
Where the borderers are matched in their 
might — 

Bleak fens that the sun's weight parches, 
Dense waves that reject his light — 

Change under the change-coloured arches 
Of changeless morning and night. 

IV 

The waves are as ranks enrolled 
Too close for the storm to sever : 

The fens lie naked and cold, 

But. their heart fails utterly never: 

The lists are set from of old. 

And the warfare endureth for ever. 



Ill 



Miles, and miles, and miles of desolation ! 

Leagues on leagues on leagues without a change ! 
Sign or token of some eldest nation 

Here would make the strange land not so 
strange. 
Time-forgotten, yea since time's creation. 

Seem these borders where the sea-birds range. 



1 70 fMttt If^tmt of ^toinbttme 

n 

Slowly, glsidly) full of peace and wonder 
Grows his heart who journeys here alone. 

Earth and all its thoughts of earth sink under 
Deep as deep in water sinks a stone. 

Hardly knows it if the rollers thunder, 
Hardly whence the lonely wind is blown. 

Ill 

Tall the plumage of the rush-flower tosses, 
Sharp and soft in many a curve and line 

Gleam and glow the sea-coloured marsh-mosses. 
Salt and splendid from the circling brine. 

Streak on streak of glimmering seashine crosses 
All the land sea-saturate as with wine. 

IV 

Far, and far between, in divers orders. 

Clear grey steeples cleave the low grey sky ; 

Fast and firm as time-unshaken warders. 

Hearts made sure by faith, by hope made 
high. 

These alone in all the wild sea-borders 
Fear no blast of days and nights that die. 

V 

All the land is like as one man's face is. 
Pale and troubled still with change of cares. 



1B^ tift fiottHf fim 171 

Doubt and death pervade her clouded spaces : 
Strength and length of life and peace are 
theirs ; 

Theirs alone amid these weary places, 

Seeing not how the wild world frets and fares. 

VI 

Firm and fast where all is cloud that changes 
Cloud-clogged sunlight, cloud by sunlight 
thinned, 
Stern and sweet, above the sand-hill ranges 
Watch the towers and tombs of men that 
sinned 
Once, now calm as earth whose only change is 
Wind, and light, and wind, and cloud, and 
wind. 

vn 

Out and in and out the sharp straits wander. 
In and out and in the wild way strives, 

Starred and paved and lined with flowers that 
squander 
Gold as golden as the gold of hives, 

Salt and moist and multiform : but yonder. 
See, what sign of life or death survives ? 

VIII 

Seen then only when the songs of olden 

Harps were young whose echoes yet endure, 



172 ^lett )poetitf of fsbAvimtm 

Hymned of Homer when his years were golden. 
Known of only when the world was pure. 

Here is Hades, manifest, beholden. 
Surely, surely here, if aught be sure ! 

IX 

Where the border-line was crossed, that, sun- 
dering 
Death from life, keeps weariness from rest. 
None can tell, who fares here forward wonder- 
ing; 
None may doubt but here might end his quest. 
Here life's lightning joys and woes once thun- 
dering 
Sea-like round him cease like storm sup- 
pressed. 



Here the wise wave-wandering steadfast-hearted 
Guest of many a lord of many a land 

Saw the shape or shade of years departed. 
Saw the semblance risen and hard at hand. 

Saw the mother long from love's reach parted, 
Anticleia, like a statue stand. 

XI 

Statue ? nay, nor tissued image woven 
Fair on hangings in his father's hall ; 



IBi; % iptort^ 0ea 173 

Nay, too fast her faith of heart was proven, 
Far too firm her loveliest love of all ; 

Love wherethrough the loving heart was cloven, 
LovQ that hears not when the loud Fates call. 

XII 

Love that lives and stands up re-created 

Then when life has ebbed and anguish fled; 

Love more strong than death or all things fated. 
Child's and mother's, lit by love and led ; 

Love that found what life so long awaited 
Here, when life came down among the dead. 

xin 

Here, where never came alive another. 
Came her son across the sundering tide 

Crossed before by many a warrior brother 
Once that warred on Ilion at his side ; 

Here spread forth vain hands to clasp the mother 
Dead, that sorrowing for his love's sake died. 

XIV 

Parted, though by narrowest of divisions. 
Clasp he might not, only might implore. 

Sundered yet by bitterest of derisions. 

Son, and mother from the son she bore — 

Here ? But all dispeopled here of visions 
Lies, forlorn of shadows even, the shore. 



1 74 &Ata }^tme of ^toinbttme 

xy 

All too sweet such men's Hellenic speech is. 
All too fain they lived of light to see. 

Once to see the darkness of these beaches. 
Once to sing this Hades found of me 

Ghostless, all its gulfs and creeks and reaches. 
Sky, and shore, and cloud, and waste, and sea. 



IV 



But aloft and afront of me faring 
Far forward as folk in a dream 

That strive, between doubting and daring. 
Right on till the goal for them gleam. 

Full forth till their goal on them lighten. 
The harbour where fain they would be. 

What headlands there darken and brighten ? 
What change in the sea ? 

n 

What houses and woodlands that nestle 

Safe inland to lee of the hill 
As it slopes from the headlands that wrestle 

And succumb to the strong sea's will i 
Truce is not, nor respite, nor pity. 

For the battle is waged not of hands 



IBi; t^e i^rtti $^ 17s 

Where over the grave of a city 
The ghost of it stands. 

Ill 

Where the wings of the sea-wind slacken, 
Green lawns to tl^e landward thrive, 

Fields brighten and pine-woods blacken. 
And the heat in their heart is alive ; 

They blossom and warble and murmur, 
For the sense of their spirit is free : 

But harder to shoreward and firmer 
The grasp of the sea. 

IV 

Like ashes the low cliffs crumble. 
The banks drop down into dust. 
The heights of the hills are made humble. 
As a reed's is the strength of their trust : 
As a city's that armies environ, 

The strength of their stay is of sand : 
; But the grasp of the sea is as iron. 
Laid hard on the land. 



A land that is thirstier than ruin : 
A sea that is hungrier than death ; 

Heaped hills that a tree never grew in ; 
Wide sands where the wave draws breath ; 



1 76 Select il^oeiM of ^inbume 

All solace is here for the spirit 

That ever for ever may be 
For the soul of thy son to inherit 
My mother, my sea. 

VI 

O delight of the headlands and beaches ! 

O desire of the wind on the wold, 
More glad than a man's when it reaches 

That end which it sought from of old : 
And the palm of possession is dreary « 

To the sense that in search of it sinned ; 
But nor satisfied ever nor weary 
Is ever the wind. 

vn 

The delight that he takes but in living 
Is more than of all things that live : 

For the world that has all things for giving 
Has nothing so goodly to give : 

But more than delight his desire is. 

For the goal where his pinions would be 

Is immortal as air or as fire is, 
Immense as the sea. 

VIU 

Though hence come the moan that he borrows 
From darkness and depth of the night. 



IBH tJft i^tM!^ fsta 177 

Though hence be the spring of his sorrows, 
Hence too is the joy of his might ; 

The delight that his doom is for ever 
To seek and desire and rejoice, 

And the sense that eternity never 
Shall silence his voice. 



DC 

That satiety never may stifle 
Nor weariness ever estrange 

Nor time be so strong as to rifle 
Nor change be so great as to change 

His gift that renews in the giving, 
The joy that exalts him to be 

Alone of all elements living 
The lord of the sea. 



What is fire, that its flame should consume her? 

More fierce than all fires are her waves : 
What is earth, that its gulfs should entomb her? 

More deep are her own than their graves. 
Life shrinks from his pinions that cover 

The darkness by thunders bedinned : 
But she knows him, her lord and her lover 
The godhead of wind. 



1 78 ^elrct }^tme of ^toinbume 

XI 

For a season his wings are about her, 
His breath on her lips for a space ; 
Such rapture he wins not without her 
In the width of his worldwide race. 
Though the forests bow down, and the moun- 
tains 
Wax dark, and the tribes of them flee, 
His delight is more deep in the fountains 
And springs of the sea. 

XII 

There are those too of mortals that love him 
There are souls that desire and require. 

Be the glories of midnight above him 
Or beneath him the day springs of fire : 

And their hearts are as harps that approve him 
And praise him as chords of a lyre 

That were fain with their music to move him 
To meet their desire 

XIII 

To descend through the darkness to grace them. 
Till darkness were lovelier than light : 

To encompass and grasp and embrace them, 
Till their weakness were one with his might : 

With the strength of his wings to caress them. 
With the blast of his breath to set free 5 



IBis ^t ^vtli 9sta 179 

With the mouths of his thunders to bless them 
For sons of the sea. 

XIV 

For these have the toil and the guerdon 
That the wind has eternally : these 

Have part in the boon and the burden 
Of the sleepless imsatisfied breeze, 

That finds not, but seeking rejoices 
That possession can work him no wrong : 

And the voice at the heart of their voice is 
The sense of his song. 

XV 

For the wind's is their doom and their blessing ; 

To desire, and have always above 
A possession beyond their possessing, 

A love beyond reach of their love. 
Green earth has her sons and her daughters. 

And these have their guerdons ; but we 
Are the wind's and the sun's and the water's. 
Elect of the sea. 



# 

For the sea too seeks and rejoices. 
Gains and loses and gains. 



1 80 ^Irct ]^em0 of ^^loitdntme 

And the joy of her heart's own choice is 
As ours, and as ours are her pains : 

As the thoughts of our hearts are her voices, 
And as hers is the pulse of our veins. 

n 

Her fields that know not of dearth 
Nor lie for their fruit's sake fallow 

Laugh large in the depth of their mirth : 
But inshore here in the shallow. 

Embroiled with encumbrance of earth. 
Their skirts are turbid and yellow. 

ni 

The grime of her greed is upon her. 
The sign of her deed is her soil ; 

As the earth's is her own dishonour. 
And corruption the crown of her toil : 

She hath spoiled and devoured, and her honour 
Is this, to be shamed by her spoil. 

IV 

But afar where pollution is none. 
Nor ensign of strife nor endeavour. 

Where her heart and the sun's are one. 
And the soil of her sin comes never. 

She is pure as the wind and the sim. 
And her sweetness endureth for ever. 



JBii tJft 0t^ fH9L i8i 

VI 



Death, and change, and darkness everlasting. 
Deaf, that hears not what the daystar saith. 

Blind, past all remembrance and forecasting. 
Dead, past memory that it once drew breath ; 

These, above the washing tides and wasting. 
Reign, and rule this land of utter death. 

n 

Change of change, darkness of darkness, hidden. 

Very death of very death, begun 
When none knows — the knowledge is forbid- 
den — 
Self-begotten, self-proceeding, one. 
Born, not made — abhorred, unchained, unchid- 
den. 
Night stands here defiant of the sun. 

m 

Change of change, and death of death begotten. 
Darkness born of darkness, one and three. 

Ghostly godhead of a world forgotten, 

Crowned with heaven, enthroned on land and 
sea. 

Here, where earth with dead men's bones is rotten, 
God of Time, thy likeness worships thee. 



1 82 ^elrct ]^em0 of ^toiidmme 

IV 

Lo, thy likeness of thy desolation. 

Shape and figure of thy might, O Lord, 

Formless form, incarnate miscreation, 
Served of all things living and abhorred ; 

Earth herself is here thine incarnation. 
Time, of all things born on earth adored. 



All that worship thee are fearful of thee ; 

No man may not worship thee for fear : 
Prayers nor curses prove not nor disprove thee. 

Move nor change thee with our change of 
cheer : 
All at last, though all abhorred thee, love thee, 

God, the sceptre of whose throne is here. 

VI 

Here thy throne and sceptre of thy station. 
Here the palace paven for thy feet ; 

Here thy sign from nation unto nation 

Passed as watchword for thy guards to greet. 

Guards that go before thine exaltation. 
Ages, clothed with bitter years and sweet. 

VII 

Here, where sharp the sea-bird shrills his ditty. 
Flickering flame-wise through the clear live 
calm. 



W^ tlit 00ctlf fin 183 

Rose triumphal, crowning all a city, 

Roofs exalted once with prayer and psalm, 

Built of holy hands for holy pity, 

Frank and fruitful as a sheltering palm. 

VIII 

Church and hospice wrought in faultless fash- 
ion. 
Hall and chancel bounteous and sublime. 
Wide and sweet and glorious as compassion. 

Filled and thrilled with force of choral chime. 
Filled with spirit of prayer and thrilled with 
passion. 
Hailed a God more merciful than Time. 

IX 

Ah, less mighty, less than Time prevailing. 

Shrunk, expelled, made nothing at his nod. 
Less than clouds across the sea-line sailing. 

Lies he, stricken by his master's rod. 
" Where is man ? " the cloister murmurs wail- 
ing; 
Back the mute shrine thunders — " Where is 
God ? '• 

X 

Here is all the end of all his glory — 
Dust, and grass, and barren silent stones. 



1 84 ^lect Ij^mui of ^ioinburtfe 

Dead, like him, one hollow tower and hoary 
Naked in the sea-wind stands and moans. 

Filled and thrilled with its perpetual story : 
Here, where earth is dense with dead men's 
bones. 

XI 

Low and loud and long, a voice for ever. 
Sounds the wind's clear story like a song. 

Tomb from tomb the waves devouring sever. 
Dust from dust as years relapse along ; 

Graves where men made sure to rest, and never 
Lie dismantled by the season's wrong. 

XII 

Now displaced, devoured and desecrated. 
Now by Time's hands darkly disinterred. 

These poor dead that sleeping here awaited 
Long the archangel's re-creating word. 

Closed about with roofs and walls high-gated 
Till the blast of judgment should be heard, 

XIII 

Naked, shamed, cast out of consecration. 
Corpse and coffin, yea the very graves. 

Scoffed at, scattered, shaken from their station. 
Spurned and scourged of wind and sea like 
slaves. 



ISe tUtt fiMHf fin 185 

Desolate beyond man's desolation, 

Shrink and sink into the waste of waves. 

XIV 

Tombs, with bare white piteous bones protruded, 
Shroudless, down the loose collapsing banks. 

Crumble, from their constant place detruded. 
That the sea devours and gives not thanks. 

Graves where hope and prayer and sorrow 
brooded 
Gape and slide and perish, ranks on ranks. 

XV 

Rows on rows and line by line they crumble. 
They that thought for all time through to be. 

Scarce a stone whereon a child might stumble 
Breaks the grim field paced alone of me. 

Earth, and man, and all their gods wax humble 
Here, where Time brings pasture to the sea. 



VII 



But afar on the headland exalted. 
But beyond in the curl of the bay. 

From the depth of his dome deep-vaulted 
Our father is lord of the day. 



1 86 fsOta }^nM of ^toinlmnte 

Our father and lord that we follow. 

For deathless and ageless is he ; 
And his robe is the whole sky's hollow. 
His sandal the sea. 

II 

Where the horn of the headland is sharper. 
And her green floor glitters with fire. 

The sea has the sun for a harper. 
The sun has the sea for a lyre. 

The waves are a pavement of amber. 
By the feet of the sea-winds trod 

To receive in a god's presence-chamber 
Our father, the God 

III 

Tim^,Jlgg^d and^changeful and hoary, 

' Is mastg£ arid God of the lanT^'^ 
Butjhe^air isTuIfiHed pT theljglory 

That is shed from our Jord 's right hand. 
O father of all of us 'ever. 

All glory be only to thee 
From heaven, that is void of thee never, 
And earth, and the sea. 

IV 

O Sun, whereof all is beholden. 

Behold now the shadow of this death. 



Wji tift ^^t0t^ &ta 187 

Tliis place of the sepulchres, olden 
And emptied and vain as a breath. 

The bloom of the bountiful heather 
Laughs broadly beyond in thy light 

As dawn, with her glories to gather. 
At darkness and night. 



Though the Gods of the night lie rotten 
And their honour be taken away 

And the noise of their names forgotten, 
Thou, Lord, art God of the day. 

Thou art father and saviour and spirit, 
O Sun, of the soul that is free 

And hath grace of thy grace to inherit 
Thine earth and thy sea. 

VI 

The hills and the sands and the beaches. 

The waters adrift and afar. 
The banks and the creeks and the reaches. 

How glad of thee all these are ! 
The flowers, overflowing, overcrowded. 

Are drunk with the mad wind's mirth : 
The delight of thy coming unclouded 
Makes music of earth. 



88 $Mm l^ontuf of ^tolirimme 

vn 

I, last least voice of her voices, 

Give thanks that were mute in me long 

To the soul in my soul that rejoices 
For the song that is over my song. 

Time gives what he gains for the giving 
Or takes for his tribute of me ; 

My dreams to the wind everliving, 
My song to the sea. 

IN GUERNSEY 

I 

The heavenly bay, ringed round with cliffs and 

moors, 
Storm-stained ravines, and crags that lawns inlay. 
Soothes as with love the rocks whose guard se- 
cures 

The heavenly bay. 

O friend, shall time take ever this away. 
This blessing given of beauty that endures. 
This glory shown us, not to pass but stay ? 

Though sight be changed for memory, love 

ensures 
What memory, changed by love to sight, would 

say — 



3|tl SuWMt^l 1 89 

The word that seals for ever mine and yours 
The heavenly bay. 

II 

My mother sea, my fostress, what new strand. 
What new delight of waters, may this be, 
The fairest found since time's first breezes 
fanned 

My mother sea ? 

Once more I give me body and soul to thee. 
Who hast my soul for ever : cliff and sand 
Recede, and heart to heart once more are we. 

My heart springs first and plunges, ere my hand 
Strike out from shore : more close it brings to 

me. 
More near and dear than seems my fatherland. 
My mother sea. 

m 

Across and along, as the bay's breadth opens, and 

o'er us 
Wild autumn exults in the wind, swift rapture 

and strong 
Impels us, and broader the wide waves brighten 

before us 

Across and along. 



iQo &t\M Tj^ma of ^tninbume 

The whole world's heart is uplifted, and knows 

not wrong; 
The whole world's life is a chant to the sea-tide's 

chorus ; 
Are we not as waves of the water, as notes of 

the song ? 

Like children unworn of the passions and toils 

that wore us, 
We breast for a season the breadth of the seas 

that throng, 
Rejoicing as they, to be borne as of old they 

bore us 

Across and along. 

IV 

On Dante's track by some funereal spell 
Drawn down through desperate ways that lead 

not back 
We seem to move, bound forth past flood and 

fell 

On Dante's track. 

The grey path ends : the gaunt rocks gape : the 

black 
Deep hollow tortuous night, a soundless shell. 
Glares darkness : are the fires of old grown 

slack ? 



3|n ^SdmMve 191 

Nay, then, what flames are these that leap and 

swell 
As 't were to show, where earth's foundations 

crack. 
The secrets of the sepulchres of hell 
On Dante's track ? 



By mere men's hands the flame was lit, we 

know. 
From heaps of dry waste whin and casual 

brands : 
Yet, knowing, we scarce believe it kindled so 
By mere men's hands. 

Above, around, high-vaulted hell expands, 
Steep, dense, a labyrinth walled and roofed with 

woe. 
Whose mysteries even itself not understands. 

The scorn in Farinata's eyes aglow 
Seems visible in this flame : there Geryon stands : 
No stage of earth's is here, set forth to show 
By mere men's hands. 

VI 

Night, in utmost noon forlorn and strong, with 
heart athirst and fasting, 



1 92 ^rlett Tj^ma of fstolnbtxmt 

Hungers here, barred up for ever, whence as one 
whom dreams affright 

Day recoils before the low-browed lintel threat- 
ening doom and casting Night. 

All the reefs and islands, all the lawns and 
highlands, clothed with light. 

Laugh for love's sake in their sleep outside : but 
here the night speaks, blasting 

Day with silent speech and scorn of all things 
. known from depth to height. 

Lower than dive the thoughts of spirit-stricken 

fear in souls forecasting 
Hell, the deep void seems to yawn beyond fear's 

reach, and higher than sight 
Rise the walls and roofs that compass it about 

with everlasting Night. 

vn 

The house accurst, with cursing sealed and signed. 
Heeds not what storms about it bum and burst : 
No fear more fearful than its own may find 
The house accurst. 

Barren as crime, anhungered and athirst. 
Blank miles of moor sweep inland, sere and blind. 
Where summer's best rebukes not winter's worst. 



3|n emtnsve 193 

The low bleak tower with nought save wastes 

behind 
Stares down the abyss whereon chance reared 

and nursed 
This type and likeness of the accurst man's 

mind, 

The house accurst. 

VIII 

Beloved and blest, lit warm with love and fame, 
The house that had the light of the earth for 

guest 
Hears for his name's sake all men hail its name 
Beloved and blest. 

This eyrie was the homeless eagle's nest 
When storm laid waste his eyrie: hence he 

came 
Again when storm smote sore his mother's 

breast. 

Bow down men bade us, or be clothed with 

blame 
And mocked for madness : worst, they sware, 

was best : 
But grief shone here, while joy was one with 

shame. 

Beloved and blest. 



194 j^elm Tfj^mni of jMoinbume 



MARCH ; AN ODE 



Ere frost-flower and snow-blossom faded and 

fell, and the splendour of winter had 

passed out of sight. 
The ways of the woodlands were fairer and 

stranger than dreams that fulfil us in 

sleep with delight ; 
The breath of the mouths of the winds had 

hardened on tree-tops and branches that 

glittered and swayed 
Such wonders and glories of blossomlike snow 

or of frost that outlightens all flowers till 

it fade 
That the sea was not lovelier than here was the 

land, nor the night than the day, nor the 

day than the night. 
Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the 

spring : such mirth had the madness and 

might in thee made, 
March, master of winds, bright minstrel and 

marshal of storms that enkindle the 

season they smite. 

II 

And now that the rage of thy rapture is satiate 
with revel and ravin and spoil of the snow. 



And the branches it brightened are broken, and 

shattered the tree-tops that only thy 

wrath could lay low, 
How should not thy lovers rejoice in thee, 

leader and lord of the year that exults to 

be born 
So strong in thy strength and so glad of thy 

gladness whose laughter puts winter and 

sorrow to scorn ? 
Thou hast shaken the snows from thy wings, and 

the frost on thy forehead is molten : thy 

lips are aglow 
As a lover's that kindle with kissing, and earth, 

with her raiment and tresses yet wasted 

and torn. 
Takes breath as she smiles in the grasp of thy 

passion to feel through her spirit the 

sense of thee flow. 

m 

Fain, fain would we see but again for an hour 

what the wind and the sun have dispelled 

and consumed. 
Those full deep swan-soft feathers of snow with 

whose luminous burden the branches 

implumed 
Hung heavily, curved as a half-bent bow, and 

fledged not as birds are, but petalled as 

flowers. 



196 f^Ant IBortttf of ^tohtbame 

Each tree-top and branchlet a pinnacle jewelled 

and carved, or a fountain that shines as 

it showers. 
But fixed as a fountain is fixed not, and wrought 

not to last till by time or by tempest 

entombed, 
As a pinnacle carven and gilded of men : for 

the date of its doom is no more than an 

hour's. 
One hour of the sun's when the warm wind 

wakes him to wither the snow-flowers 

that froze as they bloomed. 

IV 

As the sunshine quenches the snowshine; as 
April subdues thee, and yields up his 
kingdom to May ; 

So time overcomes the regret that is born of 
delight as it passes in passion away. 

And leaves but a dream for desire to rejoice in 
or mourn for with tears or thanksgiv- 
ings ; but thou. 

Bright god that art gone from us, maddest and 
gladdest of months, to what goal hast 
thou gone from us now ? 

For somewhere surely the storm of thy laughter 
that lightens, the beat of thy wings that 
play. 



ifistt^x an^ite 197 

Must flame as a fire through the world, and the 

heavens that we know not rejoice in 

thee : surely thy brow 
Hath lost not its radiance of empire, thy spirit 

the joy that impelled it on quest as for 

prey. 



Are thy feet on the ways of the limitless waters, 

thy wings on the winds of the waste 

north sea ? 
Are the fires of the false north dawn over hea- 
vens where summer is stormful and strong 

like thee 
Now bright in the sight of thine eyes ? are the 

bastions of icebergs assailed by the blast 

of thy breath ? 
Is it March with the wild north world when 

April is waning ? the word that the 

changed year saith, 
Is it echoed to northward with rapture of passion 

reiterate from spirits triumphant as we 
Whose hearts were uplift at the blast of thy 

clarions as men's rearisen from a sleep 

that was death 
And kindled to life that was one with the world's 

and with thine ? hast thou set not the 

whole world free ? 



198 &t\M Tj^ma of $MDinbumr 

VI 

For the breath of thy lips is freedom, and free- 
dom's the sense of thy spirit, the sound 
of thy song, 

Glad god of the north-east wind, whose heart is 
as high as the hands of thy kingdom are 
strong, 

Thy kingdom whose empire is terror and joy, 
twin-featured and fruitful of births di- 
vine. 

Days lit with the flame of the lamps of the 
flowers, and nights that are drunken with 
dew for wine. 

And sleep not for joy of the stars that deepen 
and quicken, a denser and fierier throng. 

And the world that thy breath bade whiten 
and tremble rejoices at heart as they 
strengthen and shine. 

And earth gives thanks for the glory bequeathed 
her, and knows of thy reign that it 
wrought not wrong. 

VII 

Thy spirit is quenched not, albeit we behold not 

thy face in the crown of the steep sky's 

arch, 
And the bold first buds of the whin wax golden, 

and witness arise of the thorn and the 

larch : 



j3 ifottfatoti €HnDen 199 

Wild April, enkindled to laughter and storm by 

the kiss of the wildest of winds that 

blow. 
Calls loud on his brother for witness ; his hands 

that were laden with blossom are 

sprinkled with snow, 
And his lips breathe winter, and laugh, and re- 
lent; and the live woods feel not the 

frost's flame parch ; 
For the flame of the spring that consumes not 

but quickens is felt at the heart of the 

forest aglow. 
And the sparks that enkindled and fed it were 

strewn from the hands of the gods of 

the winds of March. 



A FORSAKEN GARDEN 

In a coign of the clifF between lowland and 
highland. 
At the sea-down's edge between windward 
and lee. 
Walled round with rocks as an inland island. 

The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses 
The steep square slope of the blossomless 
bed 



200 ^rlett pontu of ^iDinbume 

Where the weeds that grew green from the 
graves of its roses 
Now lie dead. 

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken. 
To the low last edge of the long lone land. 
If a step should sound or a word be spoken. 
Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's 
hand ? 
So long have the grey bare walks lain guestless, 
Through branches and briers if a man make 
way, 
He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless 
Night and day. 

The dense hard passage is blind and. stifled 

That crawls by a track none turn to climb 
To the strait waste place that the years have rifled 
Of all but the thorns that are touched not of 
time. 
The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ; 

The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. 
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken. 

These remain. 

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls 
not ; 
As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots 
are dry ; 



j3 ifor«aton tfiatDm 201 

From the thicket of thorns whence the nightin- 
gale calls not, 
Could she call, there were never a rose to 
reply. 
Over the meadows that blossom and wither 

Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song ; 
Only the sun and the rain come hither 

All year long. 

The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels 

One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. 
Only the wind here hovers and revels 

In a round where life seems barren as 
death. 
Here there was laughing of old, there was weep- 
ing, 
Haply, of lovers none ever will know. 
Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping 

Years ago. 

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, ^^ Look 
thither," 
Did he whisper ? " Look forth from the 
flowers to the sea ; 
£Qr the J bam flowfCjL^ endure when the rose - 
blossoms with cTj^ 
And men that love lightly may die — but 
we ? " 



202 ^t\t(t Tj^tmg of ^tDinlmme 

And the same wind sang and the same waves 
whitened, 
And or ever the garden's last petals were shed. 
In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that 
had lightened, 

Love was dead. 

Or they loved their life through, and then went 
whither ? 
And were one to the end — but what end 
who knows ? 
Loy£,de?p as_the jea^s^a^ose must wither. 

As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. 
Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love 
them? 
What love was ever as deep as a grave ? 
They are loveless now as the grass above them 

Or the wave. 

All are at one now, roses ancT lovers. 

Not known of the cliffs and the fields and 
the sea. 
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers 

In the air now soft with a summer to be. 
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons 
hereafter 
Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now 
or weep. 



SL iFottfaken €HnDm 203 

When as they that are free now of weeping and 
laughter 

We shall sleep. 

Here death may deal not again for ever ; 

Here change may come not till all change end. 
From the graves they have made they shall rise 
up never, 
Who have left nought living to ravage and 
rend. 
Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground 
growing. 
While the sun and the rain live, these shall 
be; 
Till a last wind's breath upon all these blow- 
ing 

Roll the sea. 

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble. 
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink. 
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides 
humble 
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink. 
Here now in his triumph where all things falter. 
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand 
spread. 
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar. 
Death lies dead. 



204 fstlttt Tj^tms of j^ininlmme 

ON THE VERGE 

Here begins the sea that ends not till the world's 

end. Where we stand, 
Could we know the next high sea-mark set be- 
yond these waves that gleam, 
We should know what never man hath known, 

nor eye of man hath scanned. 
Nought beyond these coiling clouds that melt 

like fume of shrines that steam 
Breaks or stays the strength of waters till they 

pass our bounds of dream. 
Where the waste Land's End leans westward, 

all the seas it watches roll 
Find their border fixed beyond them, and a 

worldwide shore's control : 
These whereby we stand no shore beyond us 

limits : these are free. 
Gazing hence, we see the water that grows iron 

round the Pole, 
From the shore that hath no shore beyond it set 

in all the sea. 

Sail on sail along the sea-line fades and flashes ; 

here on land 
Flash and fade the wheeling wings on wings of 

mews that plunge and scream. 



^ t^ )0er8r 205 

Hour on hour along the line of life and time's 

evasive strand 
Shines and darkens, wanes and waxes, slays and 

dies: and scarce they seem 
More than motes that thronged and trembled in 

the brief noon's breath and beam. 
Some with crying and wailing, some with notes 

like sound of bells that toll. 
Some with sighing and laughing, some with 

words that blessed and made us whole. 
Passed, and left us, and we know not what they 

were, nor what were we. 
Would we know, being mortal ? Never breath 

of answering whisper stole 
From the shore that hath no shore beyond it set 

in all the sea. 

Shadows, would we question darkness ? Ere our 

eyes and brows be fanned 
Round with airs of twilight, washed with dews 

from sleep's eternal stream, 
Would we know sleep's guarded secret? Ere 

the fire consume the brand. 
Would it know if yet its ashes may requicken ? 

yet we deem 
Surely man may know, or ever night unyoke her 

starry team, 
What the dawn shall be, or if the dawn shall be 

not : yea, the scroll 



2o6 $^lrct Tj^ttM of &tDin\mcm 

Would we read of sleep's dark scripture, pledge 

of peace or doom of dole. 
Ah, but here man's heart leaps, yearning toward 

the gloom with venturous glee, 
Though his pilot eye behold nor bay nor harbour, 

rock nor shoal. 
From the shore that hath no shore beyond it set 

in all the sea. 

Friend, who knows if death indeed have life or 
life have death for goal ? 

Day nor night can tell us, nor may seas declare 
nor skies unroll 

What has been from everlasting, or if aught 
shall alway be. 

Silence answering only strikes response rever- 
berate on the soul 

From the shore that hath no shore beyond it set 
in all the sea. 



RECOLLECTIONS 



Years upon years, as a course of clouds that 

thicken. 
Thronging the ways of the wind that shifts and 

veers. 



KetoUecdaitfl? 207 

Pass,and the flames of remembered fires requicken 

Years upon years. 

Surely the thought in a man's heart hopes or fears 
Now that forgetfulness needs must here have 

stricken 
Anguish, and sweetened the sealed-up springs 

of tears. 

Ah, but the strength of regrets that strain and 

sicken. 
Yearning for love that the veil of death endears. 
Slackens not wing for the wings of years that 

quicken — 

Years upon years. 

II 

Years upon years, and the flame of love's high 

sJtar 
Trembles and sinks, and the sense of listening ears 
Heeds not the sound that it heard of love's blithe 

psalter 

Years upon years. 

Only the sense of a heart that hearkens hears. 
Louder than dreams that assail and doubts that 

palter. 
Sorrow that slept and that wakes ere sundawn 

peers. 






208 Select )poettt0 olr^toiitlmnte 

Wakes, that the heart may Behold, and yet not 

falter, 
Faces of children as stars unknown of, spheres 
Seen but of love, that endures though all things 

alter. 

Years upon years. 

Ill 

Years upon years, as a watch by night that 

passes. 
Pass, and the light of their eyes is fire that 

sears 
Slowly the hopes of the fruit that life amasses 

Years upon years. 

Pale as the glimmer of stars on moorland 

meres 
Lighten the shadows reverberate from the 

glasses 
Held in their hands as they pass among their 

peers. 

Lights that are shadows, as ghosts on graveyard 

grasses, 
Moving on paths that the moon of memory 

cheers. 
Show but as mists over cloudy mountain passes 

Years upon years. 






iProttt jaitaUmta in Cali?oon 209 

FROM ATALANTA IN CAtYDON 



CHORUS 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's 
traces, 

The mother of months in meadow or 
plain 
Fills the shadows and windy places 

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 
And the brown bright nightingale amorous 
Is half assuaged for Itylus, 
For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. 

The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 

Come with bows bent and with emptying of 
quivers. 
Maiden most perfect, lady of light. 
With a lioise of winds and many rivers. 

With a clamour of waters, and with 
might ; 
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet. 
Over the splendour and speed of thy feet ; 
For the faint east quickens, the wan west 
shivers. 
Round the feet of the day and the feet of 
the night. 



210 $^lm Tj^ttM of j^ininbume 

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to 
her, 
Fold our hands round her knees, and cling ? 
O that man's heart were as fire and could spring 
to her. 
Fire, or the strength of the streams that 
spring ! 
For the stars and the winds are unto her 
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; 
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her. 
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind 
sing. 

For winter's rains and ruins are over. 

And all the season of snows and sins ; 

The days dividing lover and lover. 

The light that loses, the night that wins ; 

And time remembered is grief forgotten. 

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten. 

And in green underwood and cover 

Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 

The full streams feed on flower of rushes. 
Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot. 

The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 

And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire. 

And the oat is heard above the lyre. 



ifnmi jSUalanta to Cal^ton 211 

And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night. 

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid. 
Follows with dancing and fills with delight 

The Maenad and the Bassarid ; 
And soft as lips that laugh and hide 
The laughing leaves of the trees divide, 
And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 

Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes ; 
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 

Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; 
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves. 
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 
^ The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 

CHORUS 






Before the beginning of years. 

There came to the making of man 
;Time, with a gift of tears ; 

GrieT, with a glass that ran ; ■ 
Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; 
Summer, with flowers that fell ; 



2 1 2 f^lttt ^0tmi of ^^ininbum r 

Remembrance fallen from heaven, 

And madness risen from hell ; 
Strength without hands to smite ; 

Love that endures for a breath ; 
Night, the shadow of light, 

And life, the shadow of death. 

And the high gods took in hand 

Fire, and the falling of tears. 
And a measure of sliding sand 

From under the feet of the years ; 
And froth and drift of the sea; 

And dust of the labouring earth ; 
And bodies of things to be 

In the houses of death and of birth ; 
And wrought with weeping and laughter. 

And fashioned with loathing and love. 
With life before and after 

And death beneath and above. 
For a day and a night and a morrow. 

That his strength might endure for a span 
With travail and heavy sorrow. 

The holy spirit of man. 

From the winds of the north and the south 

They gathered as unto strife ; 
They breathed upon his mouth. 

They filled his body with life j 



y 

(^ 



iffotit Q^rtd^nttf 213 

Eyesight and speech they wrought 

For the veils of the soul therein, 
A time for labour and thought, 

A time to serve and to sin ; 
They gave him light in his ways. 

And love, and a space for delight, 
And beauty and length of days, 

And night, and sleep in the night. 
His speech is a burning fire ; 

With his lips he travaileth ; 
In his heart is a blind desire, 

In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; 
He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; 

Sows, and he shall not reap ; 
-^ , His life is a watch or a vision 

Between a sleep and a sleisp. 

FROM ERECHTHEUS 

CHORUS 

Out of the north wind grief came forth, [&r. 1. 

And the shining of a sword out of the sea. 
Yea, of old the first-blown blast blew the pre- 
lude of this last. 

The blast of his trumpet upon Rhodope. 
Out of the north skies full of his cloud. 
With the clamour of his storms as of a crowd 



2 1 4 &t\ta Tjl^ttM of j^inittimmr 

At the wheels of a great king crying aloud. 
At the axle of a strong king's car 
That has girded on the girdle of war — 
With hands that lightened the skies in sunder 
And feet whose fall was followed of thunder, 

A God, a great God strange of name. 

With horse-yoke fleeter-hoofed than flame. 
To the mountain bed of a maiden came, 
Oreithyia, the bride mismated, 
Wofully wed in a snow-strewn bed 
With a bridegroom that kisses the bride's mouth 

dead; 
Without garland, without glory, without song, 
As a fawn by night on the hills belated. 
Given over for a spoil unto the strong. 
From lips how pale so keen a wail [Ant, i. 

At the grasp of a God's hand on her she gave. 
When his breath that darkens air made a havoc 
of her hair. 

It rang from the mountain even to the wave ; 
Rang with a cry, ff^o^^s me^ woe is me ! 
From the darkness upon Haemus to the sea : 
And with hands that clung to her new lord's 

knee. 
As a virgin overborne with shame. 
She besought him by her spouseless fame, 
By the blameless breasts of a maid unmarried 
And locks unmaidenly rent and harried. 



^wn ^STttJf^lftwt 215 

And all her flower of body, bom 
To match the maidenhood. of morn. 
With the might of the wind's wrath wrenched 

and torn. 
Vain, all vain as a dead man's vision 
Falling by night in his old friends' sight. 
To be scattered with slumber and slain ere light ; 
Such a breath of such a bridegroom in that hour 
Of her prayers made mock, of her fears derision. 
And a ravage of her youth as of a flower. 
With a leap of his limbs as a lion's, a cry from 
his lips as of thunder, [Str. %. 

In a storm of amorous godhead filled with fire. 
From the height of the heaven that was rent 
with the roar of his coming in sunder, 
Sprang the strong God on the spoil of his 

desire. 
And the pines of the hills were as green reeds 

shattered. 
And their branches as buds of the soft spring 

scattered. 
And the west wind and east, and the sound 

of the south. 
Fell dumb at the blast of the north wind's 
mouth. 
At the cry of his coming out of heaven. 
And the wild beasts quailed in the rifts and 
hollows 



2i6 &t\ttt |^oettt0 of ^inittlmme 

Where hound nor clarion of huntsman 

follows, 
And the depths of the sea were aghast, and 

whitened, 
And the crowns of their waves were as flame 

that lightened, 
And the heart of the floods thereof was 

riven. 
But she knew not him coming for terror, she 

felt not her wrong that he wrought her. 
When her locks as leaves were shed before 

his breath, ijint. 2. 

And she heard not for terror his prayer, though 

the cry was a God's that besought her. 
Blown from lips that strew the world-wide 

seas with death. 
For the heart was molten within her to hear. 
And her knees beneath her were loosened for 

fear. 
And her blood fast bound as a frost-bound 

water. 
And the soft new bloom of the green earth's 

daughter 
Wind-wasted as blossom of a tree ; 
As the wild God rapt her from earth's breast 

lifted. 
On the strength of the stream of his dark 

breath drifted. 



ifnnti <Ctft]^t^ftt0 217 

From the bosom of earth as a bride from the 

mother, 
With storm for bridesman and wreck for 

brother, 
As a cloud that he sheds upon the sea. 

Of this hoary-headed woe [EpoJe. 

Song made memory long ago ; 
Now a younger grief to mourn 
Needs a new song younger born. 
Who shall teach our tongues to reach 
What strange height of saddest speech, 
For the new bride's sake that is given to 

be 
A stay to fetter the foot of the sea. 
Lest it quite spurn down and trample the 

town, 
Ere the violets be dead that were plucked for 
its crown. 

Or its olive-leaf whiten and wither ? 
Who shall say of the wind's way 
That he journeyed yesterday, 
' Or the track of the storm that shall sound 

to-morrow. 
If the new be more than the grey-grown sor- 
L row ? 

For the wind of the green first season was 
keen. 



f 



2i8 j^elrct )pontu of JMoinbttme 

And the blast shall be sharper that blew be- 
tween 

That the breath of the sea blows 
hither. 

CHORUS 

From the depth of the springs of my spirit a 

fountain is poured of thanksgiving. 
My country, my mother, for thee. 
That thy dead for their death shall have life in 

thy sight and a name everliving 
At heart of thy people to be. 
In the darkness of change on the waters of time 

they shall turn from afar 
To the beam of this dawn for a beacon, the light 

of these pyres for a star. 
They shall see thee who love and take comfort, 

who hate thee shall see and take warn- 

Our mother that makest us free ; 
And the sons of thine earth shall have help of 
the waves that made war on their morn- 
ing, 
And friendship and fame of the sea. 



i^Mperla 219 



HESPERIA 

Out of the golden remote wild west where the 
sea without shore is. 
Full of the sunset, and sad, if at all, with the 
fulness of joy. 
As a wind sets in with the autumn that blows 
from the region of stories. 
Blows with a perfume of songs and of mem- 
ories beloved from a boy. 
Blows from the capes of the past oversea to the 
bays of the present. 
Filled as with shadow of sound with the pulse 
of invisible feet. 
Far out to the shallows and straits of the future, 
by rough ways or pleasant. 
Is it thither the wind's wings beat ? is it hither 
to me, O my sweet ? 
For thee, in the stream of the deep tide-wind 
blowing in with the water, 
Thee I behold as a bird borne in with the 
wind from the west, 
Straight from the sunset, across white waves 
whence rose as a daughter 
Venus thy mother, in years when the world 
was a water at rest. 



220 fstittt l^oetttf of ^tDinbume 

Out of the distance of dreams, as a dream that 
abides after slumber, 
Strayed from the fugitive flock of the night, 
when the moon overhead 
Wanes in the wan waste heights of the heaven, 
and stars without number 
Die without sound, and are spent like lamps 
that are burnt by the dead. 
Comes back to me, stays by me, lulls me with 
touch of forgotten caresses. 
One warm dream clad about with a fire as of 
life that endures ; 
The delight of thy face, and the sound of thy 
feet, and the wind of thy tresses. 
And all of a man that regrets, and all of a maid 
that allures. 
But thy bosom is warm for my face and pro- 
found as a manifold flower. 
Thy silence as music, thy voice as an odour 
that fades in a flame; 
Not a dream, not a dream is the kiss of thy 
mouth, and the bountiful hour 
That makes me forget what was sin, and 
would make me forget were it shame. 
Thine eyes that are quiet, thine hands that are 
tender, thy lips that are loving. 
Comfort and cool me as dew in the dawn of 
a moon like a dream ; 



^Iftepttia 221 

And my heart yearns baffled and blind, moved 
vainly toward thee, and moving 
As the refluent seaweed moves in the languid 
exuberant stream, 
Fair as a rose is on earth, as a rose under water 
in prison. 
That stretches and swings to the slow pas- 
sionate pulse of the sea. 
Closed up from the air and the sun, but alive, as 
a ghost rearisen. 
Pale as the love that revives as a ghost rearisen 
in me. 
From the bountiful infinite west, from the happy 
memorial places 
Full of the stately repose and the lordly delight 
of the dead. 
Where the fortunate islands are lit with the light 
of ineflable faces. 
And the sound of a sea without wind is about 
them, and sunset is red. 
Come back to redeem and release me from love 
that recalls and represses. 
That cleaves to my flesh as a flame, till the 
serpent has eaten his fill ; 
From the bitter .delights of the dark, and the 
feverish, the furtive caresses 
That murder the youth in a man or ever his 
heart have its will. 



222 ^Irct Tjl^ttM of ^tDinbume 

Thy lips cannot laugh and thine eyes cannot 
weep ; thou art pale as a rose is, 
Paler and sweeter than leaves that cover the 
blush of the bud ; 
And the heart of the flower is compassion, and 
pity the core it encloses, 
Pity, not love, that is bom of the breath and 
decays with the blood. 
As the cross that a wild nun clasps till the edge 
of it bruises her bosom. 
So love wounds as we grasp it, and blackens 
and burns as a flame ; 
I have loved overmuch in my life; when the 
live bud bursts with the blossom. 
Bitter as ashes or tears is the fruit, and the 
wine thereof shame. 
As a heart that its anguish divides is the green 
bud cloven asunder ; 
As the blood of a man self-slain is the flush 
of the leaves that allure ; 
And the perfume as poison and wine to the 
brain, a delight and a wonder; 
Atid the thorns are too sharp for a boy, too 
slight for a man, to endure. 
Too soon did I love it, and lo§t love's rose ; and 
I cared not for glory's ; 
Only the blossoms of sleep and of pleasure 
were mixed in my hair. 



i^e^prria 223 

Was it myrtle or poppy thy garland was woven 
with, O my Dolores ? 
Was it pallor of slumber, or blush as of blood, 
that I found in thee fair ? 
For desire is a respite from love, and the flesh 
not the heart is her fuel; 
She was sweet to me once, who am fled and 
escaped from the rage of her reign ; 
Who behold as of old time at hand as I turn, 
with her mouth growing cruel. 
And flushed as with wine with the blood of 
her lovers. Our Lady of Pain. 
Low down where the thicket is thicker with 
thorns than with leaves in the summer. 
In the brake is a gleaming of eyes and a hiss* 
ing of tongues that I knew ; 
And the lithe long throats of her snakes reach 
round her, their mouths overcome her. 
And her lips grow cool with their foam, made 
moist as a desert with dew. 
With the thirst and the hunger of lust though 
her beautiful lips be so bitter. 
With the cold foul foam of the snakes they 
soften and redden and smile; 
And her fierce mouth sweetens, her eyes wax 
wide and her eyelashes glitter. 
And she laughs with a savour of blood in her 
face, and a savour of guile. 



224 ^Mrct jpoettitf of ^inbttmr 

She laughs, and her hands reach hither, her hair 
blows hither and hisses. 
As a lowlit flame in a wind, back-blown till 
it shudder and leap ; 
Let her lips not again lay hold on my soul, nor 
her poisonous kisses. 
To consume it alive and divide from thy 
bosom. Our Lady of Sleep. 
Ah daughter of sunset and slumber, if now it 
return into prison. 
Who shall redeem it anew ? but we, if thou 
wilt, let us fly ; 
Let us take to us, now that the white skies 
thrill with a moon unarisen. 
Swift horses of fear or of love, take flight and 
depart and not die. 
They are swifter than dreams, they are stronger 
than death; there is none that hath ridden. 
None that shall ride in the dim strange ways 
of his life as we ride ; 
By the meadows of memory, the highlands of 
hope, and the shore that is hidden. 
Where life breaks loud and unseen, a sonor^ 
ous invisible tide ; 
By the sands where sorrow has trodden, the salt 
pools bitter and sterile. 
By the thundering reef and the low sea-wall 
and the channel of years. 



It^rsjprda 225 

Our wild steeds press on the night, strain hard 
through pleasure and peril, 
Labour and listen and pant not or pause for 
the peril that nears ; 
And the sound of them trampling the way 
cleaves night as an arrow asunder, 
And slow by the sand-hill and swift by the 
down with its glimpses of grass. 
Sudden and steady the music, as eight hoofs 
trample and thunder. 
Rings in the ear of the low blind wind of the 
night as we pass ; 
Shrill shrieks in our faces the blind bland air 
that was mute as a maiden. 
Stung into storm by the speed of our passage, 
and deaf where we past ; 
And our spirits too burn as we bound, thine 
holy but mine heavy-laden. 
As we burn with the fire of our flight; ah 
love, shall we win at the last ? 



226 fstittt T^tmg of ^tDittbame 



TWO PRELUDES 



LOHENGRIN 

LovB, out of the depth of things. 
As a dewfall felt from above, 
From the heaven whence only springs 
Love — 

Love, heard from the heights thereof. 
The clouds and the watersprings. 
Draws close as the clouds remove. 

And the soul in it speaks and sings, 
A swan sweet-souled as a dove. 
An echo that only rings 
Love. 

n 

TRISTAN UND ISOLDE 

Fate, out of the deep sea*s gloom. 
When a man's heart's pride grows great. 
And nought seems now to foredoom 
Fate, 



jEl VHaMeo 9isU 227 

Fate, laden with fears in wait. 

Draws close through the clouds that loom. 

Till the soul see, all too late. 

More dark than a dead world's tomb, 
More high than the sheer dawn's gate. 
More deep than the wide sea's womb. 
Fate. 

A WASTED VIGIL 



CouLDST thou not watch with me one hour ? 

Behold, 
Dawn skims the sea with flying feet of gold. 
With sudden feet that graze the gradual sea ; 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 

n 

What, not one hour ? for star by star the night 
Falls, and her thousands world by world take 

flight ; 
They die, and day survives, and what of thee ? 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 

in 

Lo, far in heaven the web of night undone, 
And on the sudden sea the gradual sun ; 



228 jMm TH^atmt of ^tDittimimr 

Wave to wave answers, tree responds to tree ; 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 

IV 

Sunbeam by sunbeam creeps from line to line. 
Foam by foam quickens on the brightening 

brine; 
Sail by sail passes, flower by flower gets free ; 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 



Last year, a brief while since, an age ago, 
A whole year past, with bud and bloom and snow, 
O moon that wast in heaven, what friends were 
we! 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 

VI 

Old moons, and last year's flowers, and last 

year's snows ! 
Who now saith to thee, moon ? or who saith, 

rose ? 
O dust and ashes, once found fair to see ! 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 

vn 

O dust and ashes, once thought sweet to smell ! 
With me it is not, is it with thee well ? 



9 

f 



jEl Watfted )0i0il ' 229 

O sea-drift blown from windward back to lee ! 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 

vra 

The old year's dead hands are full of their dead 

flowers, 
The old days are full of dead old loves of ours> 
Born as a rose, and briefer born than she \ 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 

DC 

Could two days live again of that dead year, 
One would say, seeking us and passing here. 
Where is she ? and one answering, When is he f 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 



Nay, those two lovers are not anywhere ; 
If we were they, none knows us what we were. 
Nor aught of aJl their barren grief and glee. 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 

XI 

Half false, half fair, all feeble, be my verse 
Upon thee not for blessing nor for curse ; 
For some must stand, and some must fall or 
flee J 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 



230 &dttt )ponti0 of ^tDinbumr 

xn 

As a new moon above spent stars thou wast ; 
But stars endure after the moon is past. 
Couldst thou not watch one hour, though I 
watch three ? 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 

xni 

What of the night ? The night is full, the tide 
Storms inland, the most ancient rocks divide ; 
Yet some endure, and bow nor head nor knee ; 
Couldst thou not watch with me ? 

XIV 

Since thou art not as these are, go thy ways ; 
Thou hast no part in all my nights and days. 
Lie still, sleep on, be glad — as such things be ; 
Thou couldst not watch widi me. 



THE SUNDEW 

A LITTLE marsh-plant, yellow green. 
And pricked at lip with tender red. 
Tread close, and either way you tread 
Some faint black water jets between 
Lest you should bruise the curious head. 



(S^e 0ttitiietD 231 

A live thing may be; who shall know ? 
The summer knows and sufiers it ; 
For the cool moss is thick and sweet 
Each side, and saves the blossom so 
That it lives out the long June heat. 

The deep scent of the heather bums 
About it ; breathless though it be. 
Bow down and worship ; more than we 
Is the least flower whose life returns, 
Least weed renascent in the sea. 

We are vexed and cumbered in earth's sight 
With wants, with many memories ; 
These see their mother what she is, 
Glad-growing, till August leave more bright 
The apple-coloured cranberries. 

Wind blows and bleaches the strong grass. 
Blown all one way to shelter it 
From trample of strayed kine, with feet 
Felt heavier than the moorhen was. 
Strayed up past patches of wild wheat. 

You call it sundew : how it grows. 
If with its colour it have breath. 
If life taste sweet to it, if death 
Pain its soft petal, no man knows : 
Man has no sight or sense that saith. 



232 j^elett IBoentf of ^tDittbame 

My sundew, grown of gentle days. 
In these green miles the spring begun 
Thy growth ere April had half done 
With the soft secret of her ways 
Or June made ready for the sun. 

red-lipped mouth of marsh-flower, 

1 have a secret halved with thee. 
The name that is love's name to me 
Thou knowest, and the face of her 
Who is my festival to see. 

The hard sun, as thy petals knew. 
Coloured the heavy moss-water : 
Thou wert not worth green midsummer 
Nor fit to live to August blue, 
O sundew, not remembering her. 



A MATCH 

If love were what the rose is. 

And I were like the leaf, 
Our lives would grow together 
In sad or singing weather. 
Blown fields or flowerful closes. 
Green pleasure or gray grief; 



a i^tdf 233 

If love were what the rose ia^ 
And I were like the leaf. 

If I were what the words are. 
And love were like the tune. 

With double sound and single 

Delight our lips would mingle. 

With kisses glad as birds are 
That get sweet rain at noon ; 

If I were what the words are. 
And love were like the tune* 

If you were life, my darling. 
And I your love were death, 

We*d shine and snow together 

Ere March made sweet the weadier 

With daffodil and starling 
And hours of fruitful breath ; 

If you were life, my darling. 
And I your love were death. 

If you were thrall to sorrow. 

And I were page to joy, 
We*d play for lives and seasons 
With loving looks and treasons 
And tears of night and morrow 

And laughs of maid and boy ; 
If you were thrall to sorrow. 

And I were page to joy. 



234 ^^elect l^nitf of fstainlmmt 

If you ^cre April's lady, 

And I were lord in May, 
We'd throw with leaves for hours 
And draw for days with flowers, 
Till day like night were shady 

And night were bright like day ; 
If you were April's lady, 
And I were lord in May. 

If you were queen of pleasure. 

And I were king of pain. 
We'd hunt down love together. 
Pluck out his flying-feather, 
And teach his feet a measure, 
And find his mouth a rein ; 
If you were queen of pleasure. 
And I were king of pain. 



THE SALT OF THE EARTH 

If childhood were not in the world, 
But only men and women grown 5 

No baby-locks in tendrils curled. 
No baby-blossoms blown ; 

Though men were stronger, women fairer. 
And nearer all delights in reach. 



And verse and music uttei^d rarer 
Tones of more godlike speech ; 

Though the utmost life of life's best hours 
Found, as it cannot now find, words ; 

Though desert sands were sweet as flowers 
And flowers could sing like birds ; 

But children never heard them, never 
They felt a child's foot leap and run, 

This were drearier star than ever 
Yet looked upon the sun. 



OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF 

HEAVEN 

Of such is the kingdom of heaven. 

No glory that ever was shed 
From the crowning star of the seven 

That crown the north world's head. 

No word that ever was spoken 
Of human or godlike tongue. 

Gave ever such godlike token 
Since human harps were strung. 

No sign that ever was given 
To faithful or faithless eyes 



236 &f\ttt ponitf of fstainlnxmt 

Showed ever beyond clouds riven 
So clear a Paradise. 

Earth's creeds may be seventy times seven 
And blood have defiled each creed : 

If of such be the kingdom of heaven, 
It must be heaven indeed. 



A CHILD'S LAUGHTER 

All the bells of heaven may ring, 
All the birds of heaven may sing. 
All the wells on earth may spring, 
All the winds on earth may bring 

All sweet sounds together ; 
Sweeter far than all things heard. 
Hand of harper, tone of bird, 
Sound of woods at sundown stirred. 
Welling water's winsome word. 

Wind in warm wan weather. 

One thing yet there is, that none 
Hearing ere its chime be done 
Knows not well the sweetest one 
Heard of man beneath the sun. 

Hoped in heaven hereafter ; 
Soft and strong and loud and light. 



> 



jai C||ilt'0 iFotitre 237 

Very sound of very light 

Heard from morning's rosiest hei^t. 

When the soul of all delight 

Fills a child's clear laughter. 

Golden bells of welcome rolled 
Never forth such notes, nor told 
Hours so blithe in tones so bold 
As the radiant mouth of gold 

Here that rings forth heaven. 
If the golden-crested wren 
Were a nightingale — why, then. 
Something seen and heard of men 
Might be half as sweet as when 

Laughs a child of seven. 



A CHILD'S FUTURE 

What will it please you, my darling, hereafter 

to be? 
Fame upon land will you look for, or glory by 

sea? 
Gallant your life will be always, and all of it 

free. 

Free as the Vjrind when the heart of the twilight 
is stirred 



238 ^lect poettw of ^tottibonu 

Eastward, and sounds from the springs of the 

sunrise are heard : 
Free — and we know not another as infinite 

word. 

Darkness or twilight or sunlight may compass 

us round, 
Hate may arise up against us, or hope may 

confound ; 
Love may forsake us ; yet may not the spirit be 

bound. 

Free in oppression of grief as in ardour of joy 
Still may the soul be, and each to her strength 

as a toy : 
Free in the glance of the man as the smile of 

the boy. 

Freedom alone is the salt and the spirit that gives 
Life, and without her is nothing that verily lives : 
Death cannot slay her: she laughs upon death 
and forgives. 

Brightest and hardiest of roses anear and afar 
Glitters the blithe little face of you, round as 

a star: 
Liberty bless you and keep you to be as you 

are. 



\ 



9i HBaWfi V^tstif 239 

England and liberty bless you and keep you to be 
Worthy the name of their child and the sight 

of their sea : 
Fear not at all ; for a slave, if he fears not, is 

free. 

A BABY'S DEATH 



A LITTLE soul scarce fledged for earth 
Takes wing with heaven again for goal 
Even while we hailed as fresh from birth 
A little soul. 

Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll. 
Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth 
What things are writ in heaven's full scroll. 

Our fruitfulness is there but dearth. 
And all things held in time's control 
Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth 
A little soul. 

II 

The little feet that never trod 
Earth, never strayed in field or street. 
What hand leads upward back to God 
The little feet ? 



240 ^Mrct l^oettw of ^totabttrnf 

A rose in June's most honied heat, 
When life makes keen the kindling sod. 
Was not so soft and warm and sweet. 

Their pilgrimage's period 
A few swift moons have seen complete 
Since mother's hands first clasped and shod 
The little feet. 

Ill 

The little hands that never sought 
Earth's prizes, worthless all as sands. 
What gift has death, God's servant, brought 
The little hands ? 

We ask : but love's self silent stands. 
Love, that lends eyes and wings to thought 
To search where death's dim heaven expands. 

Ere this, perchance, though love know nought. 
Flowers fill them, grown in lovelier lands. 
Where hands of guiding angels caught 
The little hands. 

IV 

The little eyes that never knew 
Light other than of dawning skies. 
What new life now lights up anew 
The little eyes ? 



9i IBaWfi S>^ HI 

Who knows but on their sleep may rise 
Such light as never heaven let through 
To lighten earth from Paradise ? 

No storm, we know, may change the blue 
Soft heaven that haply death descries ; 
No tears, like these in ours, bedew 
The little eyes. 



Was life so strange, so sad the sky. 

So strait the wide world's range. 
He would not stay to wonder why 

Was life so strange ? 

Was earth's fair house a joyless grange 

Beside that house on high 
Whence Time that bore him failed to estrange ? 

That here at once his soul put by 

All gifts of time and change. 
And left us heavier hearts to sigh 
^ Was life so strange ? 



f> 



VI 



Angel by name love called him, seeing so fair 
The sweet small frame ! 

Meet to be called, if ever man's child were. 
Angel by name. 



242 jMect )poem« of ^totabume 

Rose-bright and warm from heaven's own heart 

he came, 

And might not bear 
The cloud that covers earth's wan face with 

shame. 

His little light of life was all too rare 

And soft a flame : 
Heaven yearned for him till angels hailed him 
there 

Angel by name. 

VII 

The song that smiled upon his birthday here 
Weeps on the grave that holds him undeiiled 
Whose loss makes bitterer than a soundless tear 
The song that smiled. 

His name crowned once the mightiest ever 

styled 
Sovereign of arts, and angel : fate and fear 
Knew then their master, and were reconciled. 

But we saw born beneath some tenderer sphere 
Michael, an angel and a little child. 
Whose loss bows down to weep upon his bier 
The song that smiled. 



SONNETS 



HOPE AND FEAR 

Beneath the shadow of dawn's aerial cope, 
With eyes enkindled as the sun's own sphere, 
Hope from the front of youth in godlike 
cheer 
Looks Godward, past the shades where blind 

men grope 
Round the dark door that prayers nor dreams 
can ope, 
And makes for joy the very darkness dear 
That gives her wide wings play ; nor dreams 
that fear 
At noon may rise and pierce the soul of hope. 
Then, when the soul leaves off to dream and 

yearn. 
May truth first purge her eyesight to discern 
What once being known leaves time no 
power to appal ; 
Till youth at last, ere yet youth be not, learn 
The kind wise word that falls from years that 
fall — 
^ Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at 
all." 



244 $Mm 1^0(1110 of {^iniidmnif 



"NON DOLET 



f» 



It does not hurt. She looked along the knife 
Smiling, and watched the thick drops mix and 

run 
Down the sheer blade ; not that which had 
been done 

Could hurt the sweet sense of the Roman wife 

But that which was to do yet ere the strife 
Could end for each for ever, and the sun : 
Nor was the palm yet nor was peace yet won 

While pain had power upon her husband's life. 

It does not hurt, Italia. Thou art more 

Than bride to bridegroom ; how shalt thou not 

take 
The gift love's blood has reddened for thy sake? 

Was not thy lifeblood given for us before ? 
And if love's heartblood can avail thy need. 
And thou not die, how should it hurt indeed ? 



PELAGIUS 



The sea shall praise him and the shores bear part 
That reared him when the bright south world 
was black 



]^la8itt0 245 

With fume of creeds more foul than hell's 
own rack, 
Still darkening more love's face with loveless art 
Since Paul, faith's fervent Antichrist, of heart 
Heroic, haled the world vehemently back 
From Christ's pure path on dire Jehovah's 
track. 
And said to dark Elisha's Lord, " Thou art." 
But one whose soul had put the raiment on 
Of love that Jesus left with James and John 
Withstood that Lord whose seals of love were 
lies. 
Seeing what we see — how, touched by Truth's 

bright rod. 
The fiend whom Jews and Africans called God 
Feels his own hell take hold on him, and dies. 

II 

The world has no such flower in any land. 
And no such pearl in any gulf the sea. 
As any babe on any mother's knee. 

But all things blessed of men by saints are 
banned : 

God gives them grace to read and understand 
The palimpsest of evil, writ where we. 
Poor fools and lovers but of love, can see 

Nought save a blessing signed by Love's own 
hand. 



246 &fktt poettw of fstainlmmt 

The smile that opens heaven on us for them 
Hath sin's transmitted birthmark hid therein : 
The kiss it craves calls down from heaven 
a rod. 
If innocence be sin that Gods condemn, 
Praise we the men who so being bom in sin 
First dared the doom and broke the bonds 
of God. 

Ill 

Man's heel is on the Almighty's neck who said, 
Let there be hell, and there was hell — on 

earth. 
But not for that may men forget their worth — 
Nay, but much more remember them — who led 
The living first from dwellings of the dead. 
And rent the cerecloths that were wont to 

engirth 

Souls wrapped and swathed and swaddled from 

their birth 

With lies that bound them fast from heel to head. 

Among the tombs when wise men all their lives 

Dwelt, and cried out, and cut themselves with 

knives. 
These men, being foolish, and of saints abhorred. 

Beheld in heaven the sun by saints reviled. 
Love, and on earth one everlasting Lord 
In every likeness of a little child. 



tBIft IDtettnt into i(?eU 247 



THE DESCENT INTO HELL 



O NIGHT and death, to whom we grudged him 
then, 
When in man's sight he stood not yet undone. 
Your king, your priest, your saviour, and your 
son. 

We grudge not now, who know that not again 

Shall this curse come upon the sins of men. 
Nor this face look upon the living sun 
That shall behold not so abhorred an one 

In all the days whereof his eye takes ken. 

The bond is cancelled, and the prayer is heard 
That seemed so long but weak and wasted 

breath ; 
Take him, for he is yours, O night and death. 

Hell yawns on him whose life was as a word 
Uttered by death in hate of heaven and light, 
A curse now dumb upon the lips of night. 

II 

What shapes are these and shadows without end 
That fill the night full as a storm of rain 
With myriads of dead men and women slain. 

Old with young, child with mother, friend with 
friend, 



248 J&dect )poem« of ^toiitbttrnf 

That on the deep mid wintering air impend. 
Pale yet with mortal wrath and human pain. 
Who died that this man dead now too might 
reign, 
Toward whom their hands point and their faces 

bend? 
The ruining flood would redden earth and air 
If for each soul whose guiltless blood was shed 
There fell but one drop on this one man's head 
Whose soul to-night stands bodiless and bare. 
For whom our hearts give thanks who put up 
prayer. 
That we have lived to say, The dog is dead. 



THE MODERATES 

Virtutem viJeant intabescsntque rettet& 

She stood before her traitors bound and bare. 
Clothed with her wounds and with her naked 

shame 
As with a weed of fiery tears and flame, 
Their mother-land, their common weal and care. 
And they turned from her and denied, and sware 
They did not know this woman nor her name. 
And they took truce with tyrants and grew 
tame. 



WIft HBwtttn of SitOttiB 249 

And gathered up cast crowns and creeds to wear. 
And rags and shards regilded. Then she took 
In her bruised hands their broken pledge, and 

eyed 
These men so late so loud upon her side 
With one inevitable and tearless look. 
That they might see her face whom they for- 
sook; 
And they beheld what they had left, and died. 



THE BURDEN OF AUSTRIA 

O DAUGHTER of pride, wasted with misery. 
With all the glory that thy shame put on 
Stripped oiFthy shame, O daughter of Babylon, 

Yea, whoso be it, yea, happy shall he be 

That as thou hast served us hath rewarded thee. 
Blessed, who throweth against war's boundary 

stone 
Thy warrior brood, and breaketh bone by bone 

Misrule thy son, thy daughter Tyranny. 

That landmark shalt thou not remove for shame. 
But sitting down there in a widow's weed 

Wail ; for what fruit is now of thy red fame ? 
Have thy sons too and daughters learnt indeed 
What thing it is to weep, what thing to bleed ? 

Is it not thou that now art but a name ? 



250 f^\m |^onti0 of ^^tDinbttme 



APOLOGIA 

If wrath embitter the sweet mouth of song. 
And make the sunlight fire before those eyes 
That would drink draughts of peace from the 
unsoiled skies. 

The wrongdoing is not ours, but ours the wrong. 

Who hear too loud on earth and see too long 
The grief that dies not with the groan that dies. 
Till the strong bitterness of pity cries 

Within us, that our anger should be strong. 

For chill is known by heat and heat by chill. 

And the desire that hope makes love to still 
By the fear flying beside it or above, 
A falcon fledged to follow a fledgeling dove. 

And by the fume and flame of hate of ill 

The exuberant light and burning bloom of love. 



ON THE RUSSIAN PERSECUTION 
OF THE JEWS 

O SON of man, by lying tongues adored. 

By slaughterous hands of slaves with feet red- 
shod 
In carnage deep as ever Christian trod 

Profaned with prayer and sacrifice abhorred 



a>i;cK^anato« 251 

And incense from the trembling tyrant's horde. 
Brute worshippers or wielders of the rod, 
Most murderous even of all that call thee God, 
Most treacherous even that ever called thee 

Lord; 
Face loved of little children long ago. 
Head hated of the priests and rulers then 
If thou see this, or hear these hounds of 

thine 
Run ravening as the Gadarean swine. 
Say, was not this thy Passion, to foreknow 
In death's worst hour the works of Christian 
men ? 

DYSTHANATOS 

Adgtnerem Cereris sine cade et vuJnere pauci 
Descendunt reges^ cut siccB morte tyranni 

By no dry death another king goes down 

The way of kings. Yet may no free man's 
voice. 

For stern compassion and deep awe, rejoice 
That one sign more is given against the crown. 
That one more head those dark red waters drown 

Which rise round thrones whose trembling 
equipoise 

Is propped on sand and bloodshed and such toys 
As human hearts that shrink at human frown. 



252 f^lttt Tj^ttM of ^iDhdmme 

The name writ red on Polish earth, the star 
That was to outshine our England's in the far 
East heaven of empire — Where is one that 
saith 
Proud words now, prophesying of this White 

Czar ? 
^^ In bloodless pangs few kings yield up their 
breath. 
Few tyrants perish by no violent death." 



CARNOT 

Death, winged with fire of hate from deathless 
hell 
Wherein the souls of anarchs hiss and die. 
With stroke as dire has cloven a heart as high 

As twice beyond the wide sea's westward swell 

The living lust of death had power to quell 
Through ministry of murderous hands whereby 
Dark fate bade Lincoln's head and Garfield's 
lie 

Low even as his who bids his France farewell. 

France, now no heart that would not weep with 
thee 
Loved ever faith or freedom. From thy hand 
The staff of state is broken : hope, unmanned 



iQog SDfM ]Lauimimt0 253 

With anguish, doubts if freedom's self be free. 
The snake-souled anarch's fang strikes all the 
land 
Cold, and all hearts unsundered by the sea. 



VOS DEOS LAUDAMUS 

THE CONSERVATIVE JOURNALIST'S ANTHEM 

*' At a matter of hcty no man living, or who erer lived — not 
CjBtAB or PssicLis, not Shakespiaas or Michael Angilo — 
could confer honour more than he took on entering the House of 
Lords.'* — Saturday Revirw^ December 15, 1883. 

** Clumsy and shallow snobbery — can do no hurt.** — Ibid. 



O Lords our Gods, beneficent, sublime, 
In the evening, and before the morning flames. 
We praise, we bless, we magnify your names. 
The slave is he that serves not ; his the crime 
And shame, who hails not as the crown of 
Time 
That House wherein the all-envious world 

acclaims 
Such glory that the reflex of it shames 
All crowns bestowed of men for prose or rhyme. 
The serf, the cur, the sycophant is he 
Who feels no cringing motion twitch his knee 



254 f^Uct Tf^ttM of ^^tDittlmnir 

When from a hei^t too high for Shakespeare 
nods 
The wearer of a higher than Milton's crown. 
Stoop, Chaucer, stoop : Keats, Shelley, Burns, 
bow down : 
These have no part with you, O Lords our 
Gods. 

n 

O Lords our Gods, it is not that ye sit 
Serene above the thunder, and exempt 
From strife of tongues and casualties that 
tempt 
Men merely found by proof of manhood fit 
For service of their fellows : this is it 

Which sets you past the reach of Time's 

attempt. 
Which gives us right of justified contempt 
For commonwealths built up by mere men's wit : 
That gold unlocks not, nor may flatteries ope. 
The portals of your heaven; that none may 
hope 
With you to watch how life beneath you 
plods. 
Save for high service given, high duty done ; 
That never was your rank ignobly won : 

For this we give you praise, O Lords our 
Gods. 



3|n fsm Homtfo 255 

III 

O Lords our Gods, the times are evil : you 
Redeem the time, because of evil days. 
While abject souls in servitude of praise 

Bow down to heads untitled, and the crew 

Whose honour dwells but in the deeds they do, 
From loftier hearts your nobler servants raise 
More manful salutation : yours are bays 

That not the dawn's plebeian pearls bedew ; 

Yours, laurels plucked not of such hands as 
wove 

Old age its chaplet in Colonos' grove. 

Our time, with heaven and with itself at odds. 

Makes all lands else as seas that seethe and boil ; 

But yours are yet the corn and wine and oil. 
And yours our worship yet, O Lords our 
Gods. 



IN SAN LORENZO 

Is thine hour come to wake, O slumbering 
Night ? 
Hath not the Dawn a message in thine ear ? 
Though thou be stone and sleep, yet shalt 
thou hear 
When the word falls from heaven — Let there 
be light. 



256 $&elrct Tf^ttM of fsABinhumt 

Thou knowest we would not do thee the de- 
spite 
To wake thee while the old sorrow and shame 

were near ; 
We spake not loud for thy sake, and for 
fear 
Lest thou shouldst lose the rest that was thy 

right. 
The blessing given thee that was thine alone, 
The happiness to sleep and to be stone : 

Nay, we kept silence of thee for thy sake 
Albeit we knew thee alive, and left with thee 
The great good gift to feel not nor to see ; 
But will not yet thine Angel bid thee wake ? 



THE FESTIVAL OF BEATRICE 

Dante, sole standing on the heavenward height. 
Beheld and heard one saying, '^ Behold me 

well : 
I am, I am Beatrice." Heaven and hell 

Kept silence, and the illimitable light 

Of all the stars was darkness in his sight 
Whose eyes beheld her eyes again, and fell 
Shame-stricken. Since her soul took flight to 
dwell 

In heaven, six hundred years have taken flight. 



€lftUtMfilftt jjMrlotDe 257 

And now that heavenliest part of earth whereon 
Shines yet their shadow as once their presence 
shone 
To her bears witness for his sake, as he 
For hers bare witness when her face was gone : 
No slave, no hospice now for grief — but free 
From shore to mountain and from Alp to sea. 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 

Crowned, girdled, garbed and shod with light 
and fire, 
Son first-born of the morning, sovereign star I 
Soul nearest ours of all, that wert most far. 

Most far ofF in the abysm of time, thy lyre 

Hung highest above the dawn-enkindled quire 
Where all ye sang together, all that are. 
And all the starry songs behind thy car 

Rang sequence, all our souls acclaim thee sire. 

" If all the pens that ever poets held 

Had fed the feeling of their masters* thoughts," 
And as with rush of hurtling chariots 
The flight of all their spirits were impelled 
Toward one great end, thy glory — nay, not 

then, 
Not yet might'st thou be praised enough of 
men. 



258 j&dect Tj^ttm of ^inlmnte 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

Not if men's tongues and angels' all in one 
Spake, might the word be said that might 

speak Thee. 
Streams, winds, woods, flowers, fields, moun- 
tains, yea, the sea, 
What power is in them all to praise the sun i 
His praise is this, — he can be praised of none. 
Man, woman, child, praise God for him; but he 
Exults not to be worshipped, but to be. 
He is : and, being, beholds his work well done. 
All joy, all glory, all sorrow, all strength, all mirth. 
Are his : without him, day were night on earth. 
Time knows not his from time's own period. 
All lutes, all harps, all viols, all flutes, all lyres. 
Fall dumb before him ere one string suspires. 
All stars are angels ; but the sun is God. 



JOHN WEBSTER 



* •* 



Thunder : the flesh quails, and the soul bows 

down. 
Night : east, west, south, and northward, very 

night. 
Star upon struggling star strives into sight. 



Cor Conrttttn 259 

Star after shuddering star the deep storms drown. 
The very throne of night, her very crown, 
A man lays hand on, and usurps her right. 
Song from the highest of heaven's imperious 
height 
Shoots, as a fire to smite some towering town. 
Rage, anguish, harrowing fear, heart-crazing 

crime. 
Make monstrous all the murderous face of 
Time 
Shown in the spheral orbit of a glass 
Revolving. Earth cries out from all her graves. 
Frail, on frail rafts, across wide-wallowing 
waves. 
Shapes here and there of child and mother 
pass. 

COR CORDIUM 

O HEART of hearts, the chalice of love's fire. 
Hid round with flowers and all the bounty of 

bloom; 
O wonderful and perfect heart, for whom 

The lyrist liberty made life a lyre ; 

O heavenly heart, at whose most dear desire 
Dead love, living and singing, cleft his tomb. 
And with him risen and regent in death's room 

All day thy choral pulses rang full choir ; 



26o ^lect Tj^ttM of ^inbume 

O heart whose beating blood was running song, 
O sole thing sweeter than thine own songs 
were, 
Help us for thy free love's sake to be free. 
True for thy truth's sake, for thy strength's sake 
strong, 
Till very liberty make clean and fair 
The nursing earth as the sepulchral sea. 



DICKENS 

Chief in thy generation bom of men 

Whom English praise acclaimed as English- 
born, 
With eyes that matched the worldwide eyes 
of morn 
For gleam of tears or laughter, tenderest then 
When thoughts of children warmed their light, 
or when 
Reverence of age with love and labour worn. 
Or godlike pity fired with godlike scorn. 
Shot through them flame that winged thy swift 

live pen : 
Where stars and suns that we behold not burn. 
Higher even than here, though highest was 
here thy place, 
Love sees thy spirit laugh and speak and shine 



^n tift a>eatti0 of Carlisle ant <lHiot 261 

With Shakespeare and the soft bright soul of 
Sterne 
And Fielding's kindliest might and Gold- 
smith's grace ; 
Scarce one more loved or worthier love 
than thine. 



ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS 
CARLYLE AND GEORGE ELIOT 

Two souls diverse out of our human sight 

Pass, followed one with love and each with 
wonder ; 

The stormy sophist with his mouth of thunder, 
Clothed with loud words and mantled in the 

might 
Of darkness and magnificence of night ; 

And one whose eye could smite the night in 
sunder, 

Searching if light or no light were thereunder. 
And found in love of loving-kindness light. 
Duty divine and Thought with eyes of fire 
Still following Righteousness with deep desire 

Shone sole and stern before her and above, 
Sure stars and sole to steer by ; but more sweet 
Shone lower the loveliest lamp for earthly feet. 

The light of little children, and their love. 



i 



262 fsdttt 'Ij^ttm ta &loMmxm 

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT 

BROWNING 

He held no dream worth waking : so he said, 6L 
He who stands now on death's triumphal 

steep, 

Awakened out of life wherein we sleep (r^ 

And dream of what he knows and sees, being (^ 

dead. 
But never death for him was dark or dread : C^ 

^^ Look forth," he bade the soul, and fear not. 

Weep, -- 

All ye that trust not in his truth, and keep ^ 
Vain memory's vision of a vanished head .>! 

As all that lives of all that once was he o 

Save that which lightens from his word : but 

we, ^^ 

Who, seeing the sunset-coloured waters roll, c^ 
Yet know the sun subdued not of the sea. 
Nor weep nor doubt that still the spirit is 

whole, '^ 

And life and death but shadows of the soul, ^i 



PERSONAL AND MEMORIAL 

POEMS 



I 



THALASSIUS 

Upon the flowery forefront of the year, 
One wandering by the grey-green April sea 
Found on a reach of shingle and shallower 

sand 
Inlaid with starrier glimmering jewellery 
Left for the sun's love and the light wind's 

cheer 
Along the foam-flowered strand 
Breeze-brightened, something nearer sea than 

land 
Though the last shoreward blossom-fringe was 

near, 
A babe asleep with flower-soft face that gleamed 
To sun and seaward as it laughed and dreamed. 
Too sure of either love for either's fear. 
Albeit so birdlike slight and light, it seemed 
Nor man nor mortal child of man, but fair 
As even its twin-born tenderer spray-flowers 

were. 
That the wind scatters like an Oread's hair. 



264 j^lrct |poem« of ^tohtlmme 

For when July strewed fire on earth and sea 
The last time ere that year. 
Out of the flame of morn Cymothoe 
Beheld one brighter than the sunbright sphere 
Move toward her from its fieriest heart, whence 

trod 
The live sun's very God, 
Across the foam-bright water-ways that are 
As heaven lier heavens with star for answering 

star. 
And on her eyes and hair and maiden mouth 
Felt a kiss falling fierier than the South, 
And heard above afar 

A noise of songs and wind-enamoured wings 
And lutes and lyres of milder and mightier 

strings, 
And round the resonant radiance of his car 
Where depth is one with height. 
Light heard as music, music seen as light. 
And with that second moondawn of the spring's 
That fosters the first rose, 
A sun-child whiter than the sunlit snows 
Was born out of the world of sunless things 
That round the round earth flows and ebbs and 

flows. 

But he that found the sea-flower by the sea 
And took to foster like a graft of earth 



t![fj»\Mglug 265 

Was born of man's most highest and heavenliest 

birth. 
Free-born as winds and stars and waves are free ; 
A warrior grey with glories more than years, 
Though more of years than change the quick to 

dead 
Had rained their light and darkness on his head ; 
A singer that in time's and memory's ears 
Should leave such words to sing as all his peers 
Might praise with hallowing heat of rapturous 

tears 
Till all the days of human flight were fled. 
And at his knees his fosterling was fed 
Not with man's wine and bread 
Nor mortal mother-milk of hopes and fears, 
But food of deep memorial days long sped ; 
For bread with wisdom and with song for wine 
Clear as the full calm's emerald hyaline. 
And from his grave glad lips the boy would 

gather 
Fine honey of song-notes goldener than gold. 
More sweet than bees make of the breathing 

heather. 
That he, as glad and bold. 
Might drink as they, and keep his spirit from 

cold. 
And the boy loved his laurel-laden hair 
As his own father's risen on the eastern air. 



266 f^lttt ipoeittf of ^ininlmme 

And that less white brow-binding bayleaf bloom 

More than all flowers his father's eyes relume ; 

And those high songs he heard, 

More than all notes of any landward bird, 

More than all sounds less free 

Than the wind's quiring to the choral sea. 

High things the high song taught him ; how 

the breath 
Too frail for life may be more strong than 

death; 
And this poor flash of sense in life, that gleams 
As a ghost's glory in dreams, 
More stabile than the world's own heart's root 

seems. 
By that strong faith of lordliest love which gives 
To death's own sightless-seeming eyes a light 
Clearer, to death's bare bones a verier might. 
Than shines or strikes from any man that lives. 
How he that loves life overmuch shall die 
The dog's death, utterly : 
And he that much less loves it than he hates 
All wrongdoing that is done 
Anywhere always underneath the sun 
Shall live a mightier life than time's or fate's. 
One fairer thing he shewed him, and in might 
More strong than day and night 
Whose strengths build up time's towering period : 



tH^lf^kaSfAnt 267 

Yea, one thing stronger and more high than God, 
Which if man had not, then should God not be : 
And that was Liberty. 
And gladly should man die to gain, he said. 
Freedom ; and gladlier, having lost, lie dead. 
For man's earth was not, nor the sweet sea- 
waves 
His, nor his own land, nor its very graves. 
Except they bred not, bore not, hid not slaves : 
But all of all that is. 
Were one man free in body and soul, were his. 

And the song softened, even as heaven by 
night 
Softens, from sunnier down to starrier light. 
And with its moonbright breath 
Blessed life for death's sake, and for life's sake 

death. 
Till as the moon's own beam and breath confuse 
In one clear hueless haze of glimmering hues 
The sea's line and the land's line and the sky's. 
And light for love of darkness almost dies. 
As darkness only lives for light's dear love. 
Whose hands the web of night is woven of, 
So in that heaven of wondrous words were life 
And death brought out of strife ; 
Yea, by that strong spell of serene increase 
Brought out of strife to peace. 



268 Select ll^mat of ^tolnbume 

And the song lightened, as the wind at morn 
Flashes, and even with lightning of the wind 
Night's thick-spun web is thinned 
And all its weft unwoven and overworn 
^Shrinks, as might love from scorn. 
And as when wind and light on water and land 
Leap as twin gods from heavenward hand in 

hand, 
And with the sound and splendour of their leap 
Strike darkness dead, and daunt the spirit of 

sleep. 
And burn it up with fire ; 
So with the light that lightened from the lyre 
Was all the bright heat in the child's heart stirred 
And blown with blasts of music into flame 
Till even his sense became 
Fire, as the sense that fires the singing bird 
Whose song calls night by name. 
And in the soul within the sense began 
The manlike passion of a godlike man, 
And in the sense within the soul again 
Thoughts that make men of gods and gods of 

men. 

For love the high song taught him : love that 
turns 
God's heart toward man as man's to Godward ; 
love 



tH^lfalMgiM 269 

That life and death and life are fashioned of, 
From the first breath that burns 
Half kindled on the flowerlike yeanling's lip, 
So light and faint that life seems like to slip, 
To that yet weaklier drawn 
When sunset dies of night's devouring dawn. 
But the man dying not wholly as all men dies 
If aught be left of his in live men's eyes 
Out of the dawnless dark of death to rise ; 
If aught of deed or word 
Be seen for all time or of all time heard. 
Love, that though body and soul were over- 
thrown 
Should live for love's sake of itself alone. 
Though spirit and flesh were one thing doomed 

and dead. 
Not wholly annihilated. 

Seeing even the hoariest ash-flake that the pyre 
Drops, and forgets the thing was once afire 
And gave its heart to feed the pile's full flame 
Till its own heart its own heat overcame. 
Outlives its own life, though by scarce a span. 
As such men dying outlive themselves in man. 
Outlive themselves for ever ; if the heat 
Outburn the heart that kindled it, the sweet 
Outlast the flower whose soul it was, and flit 
Forth of the body of it 
Into some new shape of a strange perfume 



270 fstittt ^otma of ^toinbume 

More potent than its light live spirit of bloom. 
How shall not something of that soul relive, 
That only soul that had such gifts to give 
As lighten something even of all men's doom 
Even from the labouring womb 
Even to the seal set on the unopening tomb ? 
And these the loving light of song and love 
Shall wrap and lap round and impend above, 
Imperishable ; and all springs born illume 
Their sleep with brighter thoughts than wake the 

dove 
To music, when the hillside winds resume 
The marriage-song of heather-flower and broom 
And all the joy thereof. 

And hate the song too taught him : hate of 

all 
That brings or holds in thrall 
Of spirit or flesh, free-born ere God began. 
The holy body and sacred soul of man. 
And wheresoever a curse was or a chain, 
A throne for torment or a crown for bane 
Rose, moulded out of poor men's molten pain. 
There, said he, should man's heaviest hate be 

set 
Inexorably, to faint not or forget 
Till the last warmth bled forth of the last vein 
In flesh that none should call a king*s again. 



tE^lfRlBggita 271 

Seeing wolves and dogs and birds that plague- 
strike air 
Leave the last bone of all the carrion bare. 

And hope the high song taught him : hope 

whose eyes 
Can sound the seas unsoundable, the skies 
Inaccessible of eyesight ; that can see 
What earth beholds not, hear what wind and sea 
Hear not, and speak what all these crying in one 
Can speak not to the sun. 
For in her sovereign eyelight all things are 
Clear as the closest seen and kindlier star 
That marries morn and even and winter and 

spring 
With one love's golden ring. 
For she can see the days of man, the birth 
Of good and death of evil things on earth 
Inevitable and infinite, and sure 
As present pain is, or herself is pure. 
Yea, she can hear and see, beyond all things 
That lighten from before Time's thunderous 

wings 
Through the awful circle of wheel-winged 

periods. 
The tempest of the twilight of all Gods : 
And higher than all the circling course they ran 
The sundawn of the spirit that was man. 



272 j^lect |poem« of ^toinbume 

And fear the song too taught him ; fear to be 
Worthless the dear love of the wind and sea 
That bred him fearless, like a sea-mew reared 
In rocks of man's foot feared, 
Where nought of wingless life may sing or shine. 
Fear to wax worthless of that heaven he had 
When all the life in all his limbs was glad 
And all the drops in all his veins were wine 
And all the pulses music ; when his heart. 
Singing, bade heaven and wind and sea bear part 
In one live song's reiterance, and they bore : 
Fear to go crownless of the flower he wore 
When the winds loved him and the waters knew. 
The blithest life that clove their blithe life 

through 
With living limbs exultant, or held strife 
More amorous than all dalliance aye anew 
With the bright breath and strength of their 

large life, 
With all strong wrath of all sheer winds that 

blew. 
All glories of all storms of the air that fell 
Prone, ineluctable. 

With roar from heaven of revel, and with hue 
As of a heaven turned hell. 
For when the red blast of their breath had made 
All heaven aflush with light more dire than 

shade. 



tElfstaMing 273 

He felt it in his blood and eyes and hair 
Burn as if all the fires of the earth and air 
Had laid strong hold upon his flesh, and stung 
The soul behind it as with serpent's tongue, 
Forked like the loveliest lightnings : nor could 

bear 
But hardly, half distraught with strong delight, 
The joy that like a garment wrapped him round 
And lapped him over and under 
With raiment of great light 
And rapture of great sound 
At every loud leap earthward of the thunder 
From heaven's most furthest bound : 
So seemed all heaven in hearing and in sight, 
Alive and mad with glory and angry joy. 
That something of its marvellous mirth and might 
Moved even to madness, fledged as even for flight, 
The blood and spirit of one but mortal boy. 

So, clothed with love and fear that love makes 

great. 
And armed with hope and hate. 
He set first foot upon the spring-flowered ways 
That all feet pass and praise. 
And one dim dawn between the winter and 

spring. 
In the sharp harsh wind harrying heaven and 

earth 



274 ^elrct ipoeittf of ^htbttnte 

To put back April that had borne his birth 
From sunward on her sunniest shower-struck 

wing. 
With tears and laughter for the dew-dropt thing. 
Slight as indeed a dew-drop, by the sea 
One met him lovelier than all men may be, 
God-featured, with god's eyes ; and in their 

might 
Somewhat that drew men's own to mar their 

sight. 
Even of all eyes drawn toward him : and his 

mouth 
Was as the very rose of all men's youth. 
One rose of all the rose-beds in the world : 
But round his brows the curls were snakes that 

curled, 
And like his tongue a serpent's ; and his voice 
Speaks death, and bids rejoice. 
Yet then he spake no word, seeming as dumb, 
A dumb thing mild and hurtless ; nor at first 
From his bowed eyes seemed any light to come. 
Nor his meek lips for blood or tears to thirst : 
But as one blind and mute in mild sweet wise 
Pleading for pity of piteous lips and eyes. 
He strayed with faint bare lily-lovely feet 
Helpless, and flowerlike sweet : 
Nor might man see, not having word hereof. 
That this of all gods was the great god Love. 



And seeing him lovely and like a little child 
That wellnigh wept for wonder that it smiled 
And was so feeble and fearful, with soft speech 
The youth bespake him softly ; but there fell 
From the sweet lips no sweet word audible 
That ear or thought might reach : 
No sound to make the dim cold silence glad, 
No breath to thaw the hard harsh air with heat ; 
Only the saddest smile of all things sweet, 
Only the sweetest smile of all things sad. 

And so they went together one green way 
Till April dying made free the world for May ; 
And on his guide suddenly Love's face turned. 
And in his blind eyes burned 
Hard light and heat of laughter ; and like flame 
That opens in a mountain's ravening mouth 
To blear and sear the sunlight from the south. 
His mute mouth opened, and his first word came ; 
" Knowest thou me now by name f " 
And all his stature waxed immeasurable. 
As of one shadowing heaven and lightening hell : 
And statelier stood he than a tower that stands 
And darkens with its darkness far-off sands 
Whereon the sky leans red ; 
And with a voice that stilled the winds he said: 
" I am he that was thy lord before thy birth, 
I am he that is thy lord till thou turn earth : 



276 j^lrct fSoenttf of ^toinbume 

I make the night more dark, and all the morrow 
Dark as the night whose darkness was my breath : 
O fool, my name is sorrow ; 
Thou fool, my name is death." 

And he that heard spake not, and looked 
right on 
Again, and Love was gone. 

Through many a night toward many a wearier 

day 
His spirit bore his body down its way. 
Through many a day toward many a wearier 

night 
His soul sustained his sorrows in her sight. 
And earth was bitter, and heaven, and even the 

sea 
Sorrowful even as he. 

And the wind helped not, and the sun was dumb ; 
And with too long strong stress of grief to be 
His heart grew sere and numb. 

And one bright eve ere summer in autumn sank 
At stardawn standing on a grey sea-bank 
He felt the wind fitfully shift and heave 
As toward a stormier eve ; 
And all the wan wide sea shuddered j and earth 
Shook underfoot as toward some timeless birth. 



Wffa\M«ha 277 

Intolerable and inevitable ; and all 
Heaven, darkling, trembled like a stricken thrall. 
And far out of the quivering east, and far 
From past the moonrise and its guiding star, 
Began a noise of tempest and a light 
That was not of the lightning ; and a sound 
Rang with it round and round 
That was not of the thunder ; and a flight 
As of blown clouds by night. 
That was not of them ; and with songs and cries 
That sang and shrieked their soul out at the skies 
A shapeless earthly storm of shapes began 
From all ways round to move in on the man. 
Clamorous against him silent ; and their feet 
Were as the wind's are fleet. 
And their shrill songs were as wild birds* are 
sweet. 

And as when all the world of earth was 

wronged 
And all the host of all men driven afoam 
By the red hand of Rome, 
Round some fierce amphitheatre overthronged 
With fair clear faces full of bloodier lust 
Than swells and stings the tiger when his mood 
Is fieriest after blood 
And drunk with trampling of the murderous 

must 



278 ^^elect ipoeittf of Jtoinbume 

That soaks and stains the tortuous close-coiled 

wood 
Made monstrous with its myriad-mustering 

brood, 
Face by fair face panted and gleamed and pressed, 
And breast by passionate breast 
Heaved hot with ravenous rapture, as they 

quaffed 
The red ripe full fume of the deep live draught, 
The sharp quick reek of keen fresh bloodshed, 

blown 
Through the dense deep drift up to the emperor's 

throne 
From the under steaming sands 
With clamour of all-applausive throats and hands. 
Mingling in mirthful time 
With shrill blithe mockeries of the lithe-limbed 

mime : 
So from somewhence far forth of the unbeholden. 
Dreadfully driven from over and after and under. 
Fierce, blown through fifes of brazen blast and 

golden, 
With sound of chiming waves that drown the 

thunder 
Or thunder that strikes dumb the sea's own 

chimes. 
Began the bellowing of the bull-voiced mimes 
Terrible ; firs bowed down as briars or palms 



tl^^iaiMgiva 279 

Even as the breathless blast as of a breeze 
Fulfilled with clamour and clangour and storms 

of psalms ; 
Red hands rent up the roots of old-world trees. 
Thick flames of torches tossed as tumbling seas 
Made mad the moonless and infuriate air 
That, ravening, revelled in the riotous hair 
And raiment of the furred Bassarides. 

So came all those in on him ; and his heart, 
As out of sleep suddenly struck astart. 
Danced, and his flesh took fire of theirs, and 

grief 
Was as a last year's leaf 
Blown dead far down the wind's way ; and he 

set 
His pale mouth to the brightest mouth it met 
That laughed for love against his lips, and bade 
Follow ; and in following all his blood grew glad 
And as again a sea-bird's; for the wind 
Took him to bathe him deep round breast and 

brow 
Not as it takes a dead leaf drained and thinned. 
But as the brightest bay-flower blown on bough, 
Set springing toward it singing : and they rode 
By many a vine-leafed, many a rose-hung road. 
Exalt with exultation : many a night 
Set all its stars upon them as for spies 



28o Select ]poem0 of ^toinlmme 

On many a moon-bewildering mountain-height 

Where he rode only by the fierier light 

Of his dread lady's hot sweet hungering eyes. 

For the moon wandered witless of her way. 

Spell-stricken by strong magic in such wise 

As wizards use to set the stars astray. 

And in his ears the music that makes mad 

Beat always ; and what way the music bade. 

That always rode he ; nor was any sleep 

His, nor from height nor deep. 

But heaven was as red iron, slumberless, 

And had no heart to bless ; 

And earth lay sere and darkling as distraught. 

And help in her was nought. 

Then many a midnight, many a morn and 

even. 
His mother, passing forth of her fair heaven. 
With goodlier gifts than all save gods can give 
From earth or from the heaven where sea-things 

live. 
With shine of sea-flowers through the bayleaf 

braid 
Woven for a crown her foam-white hands had 

made 
To crown him with land's laurel and sea-dew. 
Sought the sea-bird that was her boy : but he 
Sat panther-throned beside Erigone, 



WifstaMiva 281 

Riding the red ways of the revel through 
Midmost of pale-mouthed passion's crownless 

crew. 
Till on some winter's dawn of some dim year 
He let the vine-bit on the panther's lip 
Slide, and the green rein slip, 
And set his eyes to seaward, nor gave ear 
If sound from landward hailed him, dire or dear j 
And passing forth of all those fair fierce ranks 
Back to the grey sea-banks. 
Against a sea-rock lying, aslant the steep, 
Fell after many sleepless dreams on sleep. 

And in his sleep the dun green light was shed 
Heavily round his head 

That through the veil of sea falls fathom-deep. 
Blurred like a lamp's that when the night drops 

dead 
Dies ; and his eyes gat grace of sleep to see 
The deep divine dark dayshine of the sea. 
Dense water-walls and clear dusk water-ways, 
Broad-based, or branching as a sea-flower sprays 
That side or this dividing ; and anew 
The glory of all her glories that he knew. 
And in sharp rapture of recovering tears 
He woke on fire with yearnings of old years. 
Pure as one purged of pain that passion bore, 
111 child of bitter mother ; for his own 



282 detect Ifpottm of ^inbitme 

Looked laughing toward him from her midsea 

throne, 
Up toward him there ashore. 

Thence in his heart the great same joy began, 
Of child that made him man : 
And turned again from all hearts else on quest, 
He communed with his own heart, and had rest. 
And like sea-winds upon loud waters ran 
His days and dreams together, till the joy 
Burned in him of the boy. 
Till the earth's great comfort and the sweet 

sea's breath 
Breathed and blew life in where was heartless 

death. 
Death spirit-stricken of soul-sick days, where 

strife 
Of thought and flesh made mock of death and 

life. 
And grace returned upon him of his birth 
Where heaven was mixed with heavenlike sea 

and earth ; 
And song shot forth strong wings that took the 

sun 
From inward, fledged with n>ight of sorrow and 

mirth 
And father's fire made mortal in his son. 
Nor was not spirit of strength in blast and breeze 



tE'^iaiMeiui 283 

To exalt again the sun's child and the sea's ; 
For as wild mares in Thessaly grow great 
With child of ravishing winds, that violate 
Their leaping length of limb with manes like fire 
And eyes outburning heaven's 
With fires more violent than the lightning levin's 
And breath drained out and desperate of desire, 
Even so the spirit in him, when winds grew 

strong, 
Grew great with child of song. 
Nor less than when his veins first leapt for joy 
To draw delight in such as burns a boy. 
Now too the soul of all his senses felt 
The passionate pride of deep sea-pulses dealt 
Through nerve and jubilant vein 
As from the love and largess of old time. 
And with his heart again 
The tidal throb of all the tides keep rhyme 
And charm him from his own soul's separate 

sense 
With infinite and invasive influence 
That made strength sweet in him and sweetness 

strong, 
Being now no more a singer, but a song. 

Till one clear day when brighter sea-wind 
blew 
And louder sea-shine lightened, for the waves 



284 ^elm ipontw of ^tohtlmmf 

Were full of godhead and the light that saves. 
His father's, and their spirit had pierced him 

through. 
He felt strange breath and light all round him 

shed 
That bowed him down with rapture; and he 

knew 
His father's hand, hallowing his humbled head. 
And the old great voice of the old good time, 

that said : 

^^ Child of my sunlight and the sea, from birth 

A fosterling and fugitive on earth ; 

Sleepless of soul as wind or wave or fire, 

A manchild with an ungrown God's desire ; 

Because thou hast loved nought mortal more 
than me. 

Thy father, and thy mother-hearted sea; 

Because thou hast set thine heart to sing, and 
sold 

Life and life's love for song, God's living gold ; 

Because thou hast given thy flower and fire of 
youth 

To feed men's hearts with visions, truer than 
truth ; 

Because thou hast kept in those world-wander- 
ing eyes 

The light that makes me music of the skies ; 



jSUiirair ii 9pstit ^tmtt 285 

Because thou hast heard with world-unwearied 

ears 
The music that puts light into the spheres ; 
Have therefore in thine heart and in thy mouth 
The sound of song that mingles north and south, 
The song of all the winds that sing of me. 
And in thy soul the sense of all the sea." 

ADIEUX A MARIE STUART 



Queen, for whose house my fathers fought, 
With hopes that rose and fell. 

Red star of boyhood's fiery thought. 
Farewell. 

They gave their lives, and I, my queen, 

Have given you of my life. 
Seeing your brave star burn high between 

Men's strife. 

The strife that lightened round their spears 
Long since fell still : so long 

Hardly may hope to last in years 
My song. 

But still through strife of time and thought 
Your light on me too fell : 



286 detect ]porm0 of ^tofatimme 

Queen, in whose name we sang or fought. 
Farewell. 

n 

There beats no heart on either border 

Wherethrough the north blasts blow 

But keeps your memoiy as a warder 
His beacon-fire aglow. 

Long since it fired with love and wonder 

Mine, for whose April age 
Blithe midsummer made banquet under 

The shade of Hermitage. 

Soft sang the burn's blithe notes, that gather 

Strength to ring true : 
And air and trees and sun and heather 

Remembered you. 

Old border ghosts of fight or fairy 

Or love or teen, 
These they forget, remembering Mary 

The Queen. 

in 

Queen once of Scots and ever of ours 
Whose sires brought forth for you 

Their lives to strew your way like flowers, 
Adieu. 



9Mtw ft S^arie fatum 287 

Dead is full many a dead man's name 
Who died for you this long 

Time past : shall this too fare the same, 
My song ? 

But surely, though it die or live, 

Your face was worth 
All that a man may think to give 

On earth. 

No darkness cast of years between 

Can darken you : 
Man's love will never bid my queen 

Adieu. 

IV 

Love hangs like light about your name 

As music round the shell : 
No heart can take of you a tame 

Farewell. 

Yet, when your very face was seen, 
111 gifts were yours for giving : 

Love gat strange guerdons of my queen 
When living. 

O diamond heart unflawed and clear, 
The whole world's crowning jewel ! 



288 detect |aoetti0 of ^toitibume 

Was ever heart so deadly dear 
So cruel ? 

Yet none for you of all that bled 

Grudged once one drop that fell : 

Not one to life reluctant said 
Farewell. 



Strange love they have given you, love dis- 
loyal, 

Who mock with praise your name. 
To leave a head so rare and royal 

Too low for praise or blame. 

You could not love nor hate, they tell us. 
You had nor sense nor sting : 

In God's name, then, what plague befell us 
To fight for such a thing ? 

** Some faults the gods will give," to fetter 
Man's highest intent : 
But surely you were something better 
Than innocent ! 

No maid that strays with steps unwary 

Through snares unseen. 
But one to live and die for j Mary, 

The Queen. 



SMmx i tfistit fatum 289 

VI 

Forgive them all their praise, who blot 
Your fame with praise of you : 

Then love may say, and falter not, 
Adieu. 

Yet some you hardly would forgive 
Who did you much less wrong 

Once : but resentment should not live 
Too long. 

They never saw your lips' bright bow, 

Your swordbright eyes. 
The bluest of heavenly things below 

The skies. 

Clear eyes that love's self finds most like 

A swordblade's blue, 
A swordblade's ever keen to strike. 

Adieu. 



vn 

Though all things breathe a sound of fight 
That yet make up your spell. 

To bid you were to bid the light 
Farewell. 



290 f^lect laoenttf of ^toinbume 

Farewell the song says only, being 

A star whose race is run : 
Farewell the soul says never, seeing 

The sun. 

Yet, wellnigh as with flash of tears. 

The song must say but so 
That took your praise up twenty years 

Ago. 

More bright than stars or moons that vary. 
Sun kindling heaven and hell. 

Here, after all these years, Queen Mary, 
Farewell. 



ON A COUNTRY ROAD 

Along these low pleached lanes, on such a day. 
So soft a day as this, through shade and sun. 
With glad grave eyes that scanned the glad wild 

way. 
And heart still hovering o'er a song begun. 
And smile that warmed the world with benison. 
Our father, lord long since of lordly rhyme. 
Long since hath haply ridden, when the lime 
Bloomed broad above him, flowering where he 

came. 



^n a Councri? HoaH 291 

Because thy passage once made warm this clime. 
Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name. 

Each year that England clothes herself with May, 
She takes thy likeness on her. Time hath spun 
Fresh raiment all in vain and strange array 
For earth and man's new spirit, fain to shun 
Things past for dreams of better to be won, 
Through many a century since thy funeral chime 
Rang, and men deemed it death's most direful 

crime 
To have spared not thee for very love or shame ; 
And yet, while mists round last year's memories 

climb. 
Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name. 

Each turn of the old wild road whereon we 

stray, 
Meseems, might bring us face to face with one 
Whom seeing we could not but give thanks, and 

pray 
For England's love our father and her son 
To speak with us as once in days long done 
With all men, sage and churl and monk and 

mime. 
Who knew not as we know the soul sublime 
That sang for song's love more than lust of 

fame. 



292 Select ^ottM of ^toinlmme 

Yet, though this be not, yet, in happy time, 
Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name. 

Friend, even as bees about the flowering thyme. 
Years crowd on years, till hoar decay begrime 
Names once beloved -, but, seeing the sun the 

same. 
As birds of autumn fain to praise the prime. 
Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name. 



IN THE BAY 



Beyond the hollow sunset, ere a star 

Take heart in heaven from eastward, while the 

west. 
Fulfilled of watery resonance and rest. 
Is as a port with clouds for harbour bar 
To fold the fleet in of the winds from far 
That stir no plume now of the bland sea's 

breast ; 

II 

Above the soft sweep of the breathless bay 
Southwestward, far past flight of night and day. 
Lower than the sunken sunset sinks, and higher 
Than dawn can freak the front of heaven with 
fire. 



3|n tift IBn 293 

My thought with eyes and wings made wide 

makes way 
To find the place of souls that I desire. 

m 

If any place for any soul there be. 
Disrobed and disentrammelled ; if the might. 
The fire and force that filled with ardent light 
The souls whose shadow is half the light we 

see. 
Survive and be suppressed not of the night ; 
This hour should show what all day hid from 

me. 

IV 

Night knows not, neither is it shown to-day, 
By sunlight nor by starlight is it shown, 
Nor to the full moon's eye nor footfall known. 
Their world's untrodden and unkindled way. 
Nor is the breath nor music of it blown 
With sounds of winter or with winds of May. 



But here, where light and darkness reconciled 
Hold earth between them as a weanling child 
Between the balanced hands of death and birth. 
Even as they held the new-born shape of 
earth 



294 jMm }^tmg of j^tohtlmme 

When first life trembled in her limbs and smiled. 
Here hope might think to find what hope were 
worth. 

VI 

Past Hades, past Elysium, past the long 

Slow smooth strong lapse of Lethe — past the toil 

Wherein all souls are taken as a spoil. 

The Stygian web of waters — if your song 

Be quenched not, O our brethren, but be strong 

As ere ye too shook ofF our temporal coil ; 

VII 

If yet these twain survive your worldly breath, 
Joy trampling sorrow, life devouring death. 
If perfect life possess your life all through 
And like your words your souls be deathless too. 
To-night, of all whom night encompasseth. 
My soul would commune with one soul of you. 

VIII 

Above the sunset might I see thine eyes 
That were above the sundawn in our skies. 
Son of the songs of morning, — thine that were 
First lights to lighten that rekindling air 
Wherethrough men saw the front of England 

rise 
And heard thine loudest of the lyre-notes there — 



3|tt tUft J5aii 295 

DC 

If yet thy fire have not one spark the less, 
O Titan, born of her a Titaness, 
Across the sunrise and the sunset's mark 
Send of thy lyre one sound, thy fire one spark, 
To change this face of our unworthiness, 
Across this hour dividing light from dark. 



To change this face of our chill time, that hears 
No song like thine of all that crowd its ears. 
Of all its lights that lighten all day long 
Sees none like thy most fleet and fiery sphere's 
Outlightening Sirius — in its twilight throng 
No thunder and no sunrise like thy song. 

XI 

Hath not the sea-wind swept the sea-line bare 
To pave with stainless fire through stainless air 
A passage for thine heavenlier feet to tread 
Ungrieved of earthly floor-work ? hath it spread 
No covering splendid as the sun-god's hair 
To veil or to reveal thy lordlier head ? 

XII 

Hath not the sunset strewn across the sea 
A way majestical enough for thee ? 



296 jMm )poetti« of fstoix^mmt 

What hour save this should be thine hour — 

and mine, 
If thou have care of any less divine 
Than thine own soul ; if thou take thought of me, 
Marlowe, as all my soul takes thought of thine ? 

XIII 

Before the moon's face as before the sun 
The morning star and evening star are one 
For all men's lands as England. O, if night 
Hang hard upon us, — ere our day take flight. 
Shed thou some comfort from thy day long done 
On us pale children of the latter light ! 

XIV 

For surely, brother and master and lord and 

Iting, 
Where'er thy footfall and thy face make spring 
In all souls' eyes that meet thee wheresoe'er. 
And have thy soul for sunshine and sweet air — 
Some late love of thine old live land should cling. 
Some living love of England, round thee there. 

XV 

Here from her shore across her sunniest sea 
My soul makes question of the sun for thee. 
And waves and beams make answer. When thy 
feet 



3|n tift IBa? 297 

Made her ways flowerier and their flowers more 

sweet 
With childlike passage of a god to be. 
Like spray these waves cast off her foemen's 

fleet. ' 

XVI 

Like foam they flung it from her, and like weed 
Its wrecks were washed from scornful shoal to 

shoal, 
From rock to rock reverberate ; and the whole 
Sea laughed and lightened with a deathless deed 
That sowed our enemies in her field for seed 
And made her shores fit harbourage for thy soul. 

xvn 

Then in her green south fields, a poor man's 

child. 
Thou hadst thy short sweet fill of half-blown 

joy, 
That ripens all of us for time to cloy 
With full-blown pain and passion ; ere the wild 
World caught thee by the fiery heart, and smiled 
To make so swift end of the godlike boy. 

xvni 

For thou, if ever godlike foot there trod 
These fields of ours, wert surely like a god. 



298 jMm l^oenttf of fstoinlmtnt 

Who knows what splendour of strange dreams 

was shed 
With sacred shadow and glimmer of gold and red 
From hallowed windows, over stone and sod. 
On thine unbowed bright insubmissive head ? 

XDC 

The shadow stayed not, but the splendour stays. 
Our brother, till the last of English days. 
No day nor night on English earth shall be 
For ever, spring nor summer, Junes nor Mays, 
But somewhat as a sound or gleam of thee 
Shall come on us like morning from the sea. 

XX 

Like sunrise never wholly risen, nor yet 
Quenched ; or like sunset never wholly set, 
A light to lighten as from living eyes 
The cold unlit close lids of one that lies 
Dead, or a ray returned from death's far skies 
To fire us living lest our lives forget. 

XXI 

For in that heaven what light of lights may be. 
What splendour of what stars, what spheres of 

flame 
Sounding, that none may number nor may name. 
We know not, even thy brethren ; yea, not w^e 



3|n tUft IBos 299 

Whose eyes desire the light that lightened thee, 
.Whose ways and thine are one way and the 
same. 

XXII 

But if the riddles that in sleep we read. 
And trust them not, be flattering truth indeed. 
As he that rose our mightiest called them, — he, 
Much higher than thou as thou much higher 

than we — 
There, might we say, all flower of all our seed. 
All singing souls are as one sounding sea. 

xxin 

All those that here were of thy kind and kin. 
Beside thee and below thee, full of love, 
Full-souled for song, — and one alone above 
Whose only light folds all your glories in — 
With all birds* notes from nightingale to dove 
Fill the world whither we too fain would win. 

XXIV 

The world that sees in heaven the sovereign 

light 
Of sunlike Shakespeare, and the fiery night 
Whose stars were watched of Webster; and 

beneath. 
The twin-souled brethren of the single wreath. 



300 9^\ttt Ijl^tme aC j^tohtimme 

Grown in king's gardens, plucked from pastoral 

heath, 
Wrought with all flowers for all men's hearts' 

delight. 

XXV 

And that fixed fervour, iron-red like Mars, 
In the mid moving tide of tenderer stars. 
That burned on loves and deeds the darkest 

done. 
Athwart the incestuous prisoner's bride-house 

bars; 
And thine, most highest of all their fires but one. 
Our morning star, sole risen before the sun. 

XXVI 

And one light risen since theirs to run such race 
Thou hast seen, O Phosphor, from thy pride 

>of place. 
Thou hast seen Shelley, him that was to thee 
As light to fire or dawn to lightning ; me. 
Me likewise, O our brother, shalt thou see. 
And I behold thee, face to glorious face ? 

XXVII 

You twain the same swift year of manhood 

swept 
Down the steep darkness, and our father wept. 



3|n tUft Wst 301 

And from the gleam of Apollonian tears 
A holier aureole rounds your memories, kept 
Most fervent-fresh of all the singing spheres, 
And April-coloured through all months and 
years. 

XXVIII 

You twain fate spared not half your fiery span ; 
The longer date fulfils the lesser man. 
Ye from beyond the dark dividing date 
Stand smiling, crowned as gods with foot on fate. 
For stronger was your blessing than his ban, 
And earliest whom he struck, he struck too late. 

XXIX 

Yet love and loathing, faith and unfaith yet 
Bind less to greater souls in unison. 
And one desire that makes three spirits as one 
Takes great and small as in one spiritual net 
Woven out of hope toward what shall yet be 

done 
Ere hate or love remember or forget. 

XXX 

Woven out of faith and hope and love too great 
To bear the bonds of life and death and fate : 
Woven out of love and hope and faith too dear 
To take the print of doubt and change and fear r 



302 delect lH^tmg of ^mbume 

And interwoven with lines of wrath and hate 
Blood-red with soils of many a sanguine year. 

XXXI 

Who cannot hate, can love not ; if he grieve. 
His tears are barren as the unfruitful rain 
That rears no harvest from the green sea's plain. 
And as thorns crackling this man's laugh is vain. 
Nor can belief touch, kindle, smite, reprieve 
His heart who has not heart to disbelieve. 

xxxn 

But you, most perfect in your hate and love. 
Our great twin-spirited brethren ; you that stand 
Head by head glittering, hand made fast in hand. 
And underfoot the fang-drawn worm that strove 
To wound you living ; from so far above. 
Look love, not scorn, on ours that was your 
land. 

XXXIII 

For love we lack, and help and heat and light 
To clothe us and to comfort us with might. 
What help is ours to take or give ? but ye — 
O, more than sunrise to the blind cold sea. 
That wailed aloud with all her waves all night. 
Much more, being much more glorious, should 
you be. 



In tie IBa? 303 



XXXIV 

As fire to frost, as ease to toil, as dew 

To flowerless fields, as sleep to slackening pain. 

As hope to souls long weaned from hope again 

Returning, or as blood revived anew 

To dry-drawn limbs and every pulseless vein. 

Even so toward us should no man be but you. 

XXXV 

One rose before the sunrise was, and one 
Before the sunset, lovelier than the sun. 
And now the heaven is dark and bright and loud 
With wind and starry drift and moon and cloud. 
And night's cry rings in straining sheet and shroud. 
What help is ours if hope like yours be none ? 

XXXVI 

O well-beloved, our brethren, if ye be. 
Then are we not forsaken. This kind earth 
Made fragrant once for all time with your birth. 
And bright for all men with your love, and worth 
The clasp and kiss and wedlock of the sea. 
Were not your mother if not your brethren we. 

XXXVII 

Because the days were dark with gods and kings 
And in time's hand the old hours of time as rods. 



304 $Mm Ijl^tme of ^htlmmr 

When force and fear set hope and faith at 

odds, 
Ye failed not nor abased your plume^plucked 

wings; 
And we that front not more disastrous things. 
How should we fail in face of kings and gods ? 

XXXVIII 

For now the deep dense plumes of night are 

thinned 
Surely with winnowing of the glimmering wind 
Whose feet are fledged with morning ; and the 

breath 
Begins in heaven that sings the dark to death. 
And all the night wherein men groaned and 

sinned 
Sickens at heart to hear what sundawn saith. 

XXXIX 

O first-born sons of hope and fairest, ye 
Whose prows first clove the thought-unsounded 

sea 
Whence all the dark dead centuries rose to 

bar 
The spirit of man lest truth should make him 

free. 
The sunrise and the sunset, seeing one star. 
Take heart as we to know you that ye are. 



In ^ntion; of USaltrr jMnge iLanlNnr 305 

XL 

Ye rise not and ye set not ; we that say 
Ye rise and set like hopes that set and rise 
Look yet but seaward from a land-locked bay ; 
But where at last the sea's line is the sky's 
And truth and hope one sunlight in your eyes, 
No sunrise and no sunset marks their day. 



IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE 

LANDOR 

Back to the flower-town, side, by side, 

The, bright months bring, 
New-born, the- bridegroom and the bride. 

Freedom and spriqg. 

The sweet land laughs from sea to sea. 

Filled full of sun ; 
AU things come back to her, being free ; 

All things but one. 

In many a tender wheaten plot 

Flowers that were dead 
Live, and old suns revive ; but not 

That holier head. 



3o6 fSfHttt ^oemtf tit j^feDinlmnte 

By this white wandering waste of sea, 

Far north, I hear 
One face shall never turn to me 

As once this year : 

Shall never smile and turn and rest 

On mine as there, 
Nor one most sacred hand be prest 

Upon my hair. 

I came as one whose thoughts half linger. 

Half run before ; 
The youngest to the oldest singer 

That England bore. 

I found him whom I shall not find 

Till all grief end, 
In holiest age our mightiest mind. 

Father and friend. 

But thou, if any thing endure. 

If hope there be, 
O spirit that man's life left pure, 

Man's death set free. 

Not with disdain of days that were 

Look earthward now ; 
Let dreams revive the reverend hair, 
. . The imperial brow; 



tETo 9ictor i^so 307 

Come back in sleep, for in the life 

Where thou art not 
We find none like thee. Time and strife 

And the world's lot 

Move thee no. more; but love at least 

And reverent heart 
May move thee, royal and released. 

Soul, as thou art. 

And thou, his Florence, to thy trust 

Receive and keep, 
Keep safjp his dedicated dust. 

His sacred sleep. 

So shall thy lovers, come from far. 

Mix with thy name 
As morning-star with evening-star 

His faultless fame. 



TO VICTOR HUGO 

In the fair days when God 
By man as godlike trod. 
And each alike was Greek, alike was free, 
God's lightning spared, they said, 
Alone the happier head 



3o8 jMm }j^ttM of fsioinhnmt 

Whose laurels screened it; fruitless grace for 
thee. 
To whom the high gods gave of right 
Their thunders and their laurels and their light. 

Sunbeams and bays before 

Our master's servants wore, 
For these Apollo left in all men's lands ; 

But far from these ere now 

And watched with jealous brow 
Lay the blind lightnings shut between God's 
hands. 

And only loosed on slaves and kings 
The terror of the tempest of their wings. 

Born in those younger years 

That shone with storms of spears 
And shook in the wind blown from a dead 
world's pyre, 

When by her back-blown hair 

Napoleon caught the fair 
And fierce Republic with her feet of fire, 

And stayed with iron words and hands 
Her flight, and freedom in a thousand lands : 

Thou sawest the tides of things 
Close over heads of kings. 
And thine hand felt the thunder, and to thee 



Laurels and lightnings were 

As sunbeams and soft air 
Mixed each in other, or as mist with sea 

Mixed; or as memory with desire, 
Or the lute's pulses with the louder lyre. 

For thee man's spirit stood 

Disrobed of flesh and blood, 
And bare the heart of the most secret hours ; 

And to thine hand more tame 

Than birds in winter came 
High hopes and unknown flying forms of powers. 

And from thy table fed, and sang 
Till with the tune men's ears took fire and rang. 

Even all men's eyes and ears 
With fiery sound and tears 
Waxed hot, and cheeks caught flame and eye- 
lids light. 
At those high songs of thine 
That stung the sense like wine. 
Or fell more soft than dew or snow by night, 

, Or wailed as in some flooded cave 
Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave. 

But we, our master, we 
Whose hearts, uplift to thee. 
Ache with the pulse of thy remembered song, 



310 Select Tg^tma of j^toinbome 

We ask not nor await 

From the clenched hands of fate, 

As thou, remission of the world's old wrong ; 
Respite we ask not, nor release ; 

Freedom a man may have, he shall not peace. 

Though thy most fiery hope 

Storm heaven, to set wide ope 
The all-sought-for gate whence God or Chance 
debars 

All feet of men, all eyes — 

The old night resumes her skies, 
Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars. 

Where naught save these is sure in sight ; 
And, paven with death, our days are roofed with 
night. 

One thing we can ; to be 

Awhile, as men may, free ; 
But not by hope or pleasure the most stern 

Goddess, most awful-eyed. 

Sits, but on either side 
Sit sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn. 

Sad faith that cannot hope or fear. 
And memory grey with many a fiowerless year. 

Not that in stranger's wise 
I lift not loving eyes 



ta^ iMttot ifugfi 311 

To the fair foster-mother France, that gave 

Beyond the pale fleet foam 

Help to my sires and home, 
Whose great sweet breast could shelter those 
and save 

Whom from her nursing breasts and hands 
Their land cast forth of old on gentler lands. 

Not without thoughts that ache 

For theirs and for thy sake, 
I, bom of exiles, hail thy banished head ; 

I, whose young song took flight 

Toward the great heat and light. 
On me a child from thy far splendour shed. 

From thine high place of soul and song. 
Which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made them strong. 

Ah, not with lessening love 

For memories born hereof, 
I look to that sweet mother-land, and see 

The old fields and fair full streams. 

And skies, but fled like dreams 
The feet of freedom and the thought of thee ; 

And all between the skies and graves 
The mirth of mockers and the shame of slaves. 

She, killed with noisome air, 
Even she ! and still so fair. 



312 ^Irct Ij^tma of fstoin\nmu 

Who said, " Let there be freedom," and there was 

Freedom; and as a lance 

The fiery eyes of France 
Touched the world's sleep and as a sleep made 
pass 

Forth of men's heavier ears and eyes 
Smitten with fire and thunder from new skies. 

Are they men's friends indeed 
Who watch them weep and bleed ? 

Because thou hast loved us, shall the gods love 
thee? 
Thou, first of men and friend, 
Seest thou, even thou, the end ? 

Thou knowest what hath been, knowest thou 
what shall be ? 
Evils may pass and hopes endure ; 

But fate is dim, and all the gods obscure. 

O nursed in airs apart, 

O poet highest of heart. 
Hast thou seen time, who hast seen so many 
things ? 

Are not the years more wise. 

More sad than keenest eyes. 
The years with soundless feet and sounding wings ? 

Passing we hear them not, but past 
The clamour of them thrills us, and their blast. 



t!!^tdimtifn%o 313 

Thou art chief of us, and lord ; 

Thy song is as a sword 
Keen-edged and scented in the blade from flow- 
ers; 

Thou art lord and king; but we 

Lift younger eyes, and see 
Less of high hope, less light on wandering 
hours ; 

Hours that have borne men down so long, 
Seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong. 

But thine imperial soul. 

As years and ruins roll 
To the same end, and all things and all dreams 

With the same wreck and roar 

Drift on the dim same shore. 
Still in the bitter foam and brackish streams 

Tracks the fresh water-spring to be 
And sudden sweeter fountains in the sea. 

As once the high God bound 

With many a rivet round 
Man's saviour, and with iron nailed him through. 

At the wild end of things, 

Where even his own bird's wings 
Flagged, whence the sea shone like a drop of dew. 

From Caucasus beheld below 
Past fathoms of unfathomable snow ; 



314 Select l^ortitf of j^toinbttme 

So the strong God, the chance 

Central of circumstance, 
Still shows him exile who will not be slave ; 

All thy great fame and thee 

Girt by the dim strait sea 
With multitudinous walls of wandering wave ; 

Shows us our greatest from his throne 
Fate-stricken, and rejected of his own. 

Yea, he is strong, thou say*st, 

A mystery many-faced. 
The wild beasts know him and the wild birds 
flee. 

The blind night sees him, death 

Shrinks beaten at his breath. 
And his right hand is heavy on the sea : 

We know he hath made us, and is king ; 
We know not if he care for any thing. 

Thus much, no more, we know ; 

He bade what is be so. 
Bade light be and bade night be, one by 
one; 

Bade hope and fear, bade ill 

And good redeem and kill. 
Till all men be aweary of the sun 

And his world burn in its own flame 
And bear no witness longer of his name. 



tD4i )0ictor i^^ttgo 315 

Yet though all this be thus. 

Be those men praised of us 
Who have loved and wrought and sorrowed and 
not sinned 

For fame or fear or gold. 

Nor waxed for winter cold. 
Nor changed for changes of the worldly wind ; 

Praised above men of men be these. 
Till this one world and work we know shall 
cease. 

Yea, one thing more than this. 

We know that one thing is. 
The splendour of a spirit without blame. 

That not the labouring years 

Blind-bom, nor any fears. 
Nor men nor any gods can tire or tame ; 

But purer power with fiery breath 
Fills, and exalts above the gulfs of death. 

Praised above men be thou. 

Whose laurel-laden brow. 
Made for the morning, droops not in the night ; 

Praised and beloved, that none 

Of all thy great things done 
Flies higher than thy most equal spirit* s flight ; 

Praised, that nor doubt nor hope could bend 
Earth's loftiest head, found upright to the end. 



31 6 fstltct Tg^tmg of j^toinbttme 

AVE ATQUE VALE 

IN MEMORY OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE 

Nou8 deyrioni pourtant lui porter qudques fleurs ; 
Let morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleun, 
£t quand Octobre souffle, emondeur des yieux arbres, 
Son vent m^lancolique a Tentour de leurs marbres, 
Certe, Us doiyent trouver les vivants bien ingrats. 

Les Fleurs du Mai. 

I 

Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel. 

Brother, on this that was the veil of thee ? 
Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea. 

Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel. 
Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave. 
Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at 
eve? 

Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before. 

Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat 
And full of bitter summer, but more sweet 

To thee than gleanings of a northern shore 
Trod by no tropic feet ? 

II 

For always thee the fervid languid glories 

Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies ; 
Thine ears knew all the wandering watery 
sighs. 



j9lte atQue )0alr 317 

Where the sea sobs roupd Lesbian promontories, 
The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave 
That knows not where is that Leucadian 
grave 

Which hides too deep the supreme head of song. 
Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were. 
The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs 
bear 

Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong. 
Blind gods that cannot spare. 

m 

Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, 
brother. 
Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us : 
Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poison- 
ous. 
Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other 

Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in 

clime ; 
The hidden harvest of luxurious time. 
Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech ; 
And where strange dreams in a tumultuous 

sleep 
Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep ; 
And with each face thou sawest the shadow on 
each. 
Seeing as men sow men reap. 



3i8 fstltct Tg^tma of &toin\mtnt 

IV 

O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping. 

That were athirst for sleep and no more 
life 

And no more love, for peace and no more 
strife ! 
Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping 

Spirit and body and all the springs of song. 

Is it well now where love can do no wrong. 
Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang 

Behind the unopening closure of her lips ? 

Is it not well where soul from body slips 
And flesh from bone divides without a pang 

As dew from flower-bell drips ? 



It is enough ; the end and the beginning 

Are one thing to thee, who art past the 

end. 

« 

O hand unclasped of unheholden friend. 
For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for win- 
ning. 
No triumph and no labour and no lust. 
Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. 
O quiet eyes wherein the light saith nought. 
Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night 
With obscure finger silences your sight. 



j9lte atQue I0alr 319 

For in your speech the sudden soul speaks 
thought, 
Sleep, and have sleep for light. 

VI 

Now all strange hours and all strange loves are 
over, 
Dreams and desires and sombre songs and 

sweet, 
Hast thou found place at the great knees 
and feet. 
Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, 
Such as thy vision here solicited. 
Under the shadow of her fair vast head. 
The deep division of prodigious breasts, 

The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep. 
The weight of awful tresses that still 
keep 
The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests 
Where the wet hill-winds weep ? 

VII 

Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision ? 
O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, 

what bloom. 
Hast thou found sown, what gathered in 
the gloom ? 
What of despair, of rapture, of derision. 



320 Select J^tmg of j^ininimme 

What of life is there, what of ill or 
good ? 

Are the fruits grey like dust or bright like 
blood ? 
Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, 

The faint fields quicken any terrene root. 

In low lands where the sun and moon are 
mute 
And all the stars keep silence ? Are there flow- 
ers 

At all, or any fruit ? 

VIII 

Alas, but though my flying song flies after, 

O sweet strange elder singer, thy more 

fleet 
Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet. 
Some dim derision of mysterious laughter 

From the blind tongueless warders of the 

dead. 
Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's 
veiled head. 
Some little sound of unregarded tears 
Wept by eflaced unprofitable eyes. 
And from pale mouths some cadence of 
dead sighs — 
These only, these the hearkening spirit hears. 
Sees only such things rise. 



IX 

Thou art far too far for wings of words to follow, 

Far too far off for thought or any prayer. 

What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? 
What ails us gazing where all seen is hollow ? 

Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire. 

Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, 
Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find. 

Still, and more swift than they, the thin 
flame flies. 

The low light fails us in elusive skies. 
Still the foiled earnest ear is deaf, and blind 

Are still the eluded eyes. 



Not thee, O never thee, in all time's changes. 
Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul. 
The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut 
scroll 
I lay my hand on, and not death estranges 

My spirit from communion of thy song — 
These memories and these melodies that 
throng 
Veiled porches of a Muse funereal — 

These I salute, these touch, these clasp and 

fold 
As though a hand were in my hand to hold, 



322 ^Irct '}g^tmg of fstan^nmit 

Or through mine ears a mourning musical 
Of many mourners rolled. 

XI 

I among these, I also, in such station 

As when the pyre was charred, and piled 

the sods, 
And offering to the dead made, and their 
gods. 
The old mourners had, standing to make liba- 
tion, 
I stand, and to the gods and to the dead 
Do reverence without prayer or praise, and 
shed 
Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom. 
And what of honey and spice my seedlands 

bear. 
And what I may of fruits in this chilled air. 
And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb 
A curl of severed hair. 

xn 

But by no hand nor any treason stricken. 

Not like the low-lying head of Him, the 

King, 
The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing. 
Thou liest, and on this dust no tears could 
quicken 



jatbe atQue )Mle 323 

There fall no tears like theirs that all men 
hear 

Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear 
Down the opening leaves of holy poets' pages. 

Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns ; 

But bending usrward with memorial urns 
The most high Muses that fulfil all ages 

Weep, and our God's heart yearns. 

XIII 

For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often 

Among us darkling here the lord of light 

Makes manifest his music and his might 
In hearts that open and in lips that soften 

With the soft flame and heat of songs that 
shine. 

Thy lips indeed he touched with bitter wine, 
And nourished them indeed with bitter bread ; 

Yet surely from his hand thy soul's food 
came. 

The fire that scarred thy spirit at his flame 
Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed 

Who feeds our hearts with fame. 

XIV 

Therefore he too now at thy soul's sun setting, 
God of all suns and songs, he too bends down 
To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown, 



324 jMim poemtf of ^tuittbume 

And save thy dust from blame and from forget- 
ting. 
Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and 

art. 
Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart. 
Mourns thee of many his children the last dead. 
And hallows with strange tears and alien 

sighs 
Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless 
eyes. 
And over thine irrevocable head 

Sheds light from the under skies. 

XV 

And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean, 
And stains with tears her changing bosom 

chill; 
That obscure Venus of the hollow hill. 
That thing transformed that was the Cytherean, 
With lips that lost their Grecian laugh 

divine 
Long since, and face no more called £ry- 
cine; 
A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. 

Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell 
Did she, a sad and second prey, compel 
Into the footless places once more trod. 
And shadows hot from hell. 



jaibr atqur isalr 325 

XVI 

And now no sacred staiF shall break in blossom, 
No choral salutation lure to light 
A spirit sick with perfume and sweet night 

And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom. 
There is no help for these things ; none 

to mend, 
And none to mar; not all our songs, O 
friend, 

Will make death clear or make life durable. 
Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine 
And with wild notes about this dust of thine 

At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell 
And wreathe an unseen shrine. 

XVII 

Sleep ; and if life Was bitter to thee, pardon. 
If sweet, give thanks ; thou hast no more 

to live; 
And to give thanks is good, and to forgive. 
Out of the mystic and the mournful garden 

Where all day through thine hands in bar- 
ren braid 
Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and 
shade. 
Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants 

grey, 



326 jMim Tj^otmi of jMoitdmnte 

Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine- 
hearted, 

Passions that sprang from sleep and 
thoughts that started, 
Shall death not bring us all as thee one day 

Among the days departed ? 

xvni 

For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother. 

Take at my hands this garland, and farewell. 
Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell. 

And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother. 
With sadder than the Niobean womb. 
And in the hollow of her breast a tomb. 

Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done ; 
There lies not any troublous thing before. 
Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more. 

For whom all winds are quiet as the sun. 
All waters as the shore. 



LINES ON THE MONUMENT OF 
GIUSEPPE MAZZINI 

Italia, mother of the souls of men. 

Mother divine, 
Of all that served thee best with sword or pen. 

All sons of thine, 



ILitte0 on tlie ipmammt of jjta^^iini 3^7 

Thou knowest that here the likeness of the best 

Before thee stands : 
The head most high, the heart found faithfulest, 

The purest hands. 

Above the fume and foam of time that flits, 

The soul, we know. 
Now sits on high where Alighieri sits 

With Angelo. 

Not his own heavenly tongue hath heavenly speech 

Enough to say 
What this man was, whose praise no thought 
may reach. 

No words can weigh. 

Since man's first mother brought to mortal birth 

Her first-born son 
Such grace befell not ever man on earth 

As crowns this one. 

Of God nor man was ever this thing said. 

That he could give 
Life back to her who gave him, that his dead 

Mother might live. 

But this man found his mother dead and slain. 
With fast sealed eyes, 



328 $Mrct }^tma of ^tDinbimie 

And bade the dead rise up and live again, 

And she did rise : 

And all the world was bright with her through 
him : 

But dark with strife. 
Like heaven's own sun that storming clouds bedim. 

Was all his life. 

Life and the clouds are vanished : hate and fear 

Have had their span 
Of time to hurt, and are not : he is here. 

The sunlike man. 

City superb, that hadst Columbus first 

For sovereign son. 
Be prouder that thy breast hath later nurst 

This mightier one. 

Glory be his for ever, while this land 

Lives and is free. 
As with controlling breath and sovereign hand 

He bade her be. 

Earth shows to heaven the names by thousands told 

That crown her fame. 
But highest of all that heaven and earth behold 

Mazzini's name. 



Wlit v^tat^ of Sttclmti masner 329 



THE DEATH OF RICHARD WAGNER 



Mourning on earth, as when dark hours descend. 
Wide-winged with plagues, from heaven ; when 

hope and mirth 
Wane, and no lips rebuke or reprehend 
Mourning on earth. 

The soul wherein her songs of death and birth. 
Darkness and light, were wont to sound and blend. 
Now silent, leaves the whole world less in worth. 

Winds that make moan and triumph, skies that 

bend. 
Thunders, and sound of tides in gulf and firth, 
Spake through his spirit of speech, whose death 

should send 

Mourning on earth. 

II 

The world's great heart, whence all things 

strange and rare 
Take form and sound, that each inseparate part 
May bear its burden in all tuned thoughts that 

share 

The world's great heart — 



330 {Mm }^tm» of jl&tDbibttme 

The fountain forces, whence like steeds that 

start 
Leap forth the powers of earth and fire and air. 
Seas that revolve and rivers that depart — 

Spake, and were turned to song : yea, all they 

were. 
With all their works, found in his mastering art 
Speech as of powers whose uttered word laid bare 
The world's great heart. 

m 

From the depths of the sea, from the wellsprings 

of earth, from the wastes of the midmost 

night. 
From the fountains of darkness and tempest and 

thunder, from heights where the soul 

would be. 
The spell of the mage of music evoked their 

sense, as an unknown light 
From the depths of the sea. 

As a vision of heaven from the hollows of ocean, 
that none but a god might see. 

Rose out of the silence of things unknown of a 
presence, a form, a might. 

And we heard as a prophet that hears God's 
message against him, and may not flee. 



IDenitattoi 33 ^ 

Eye might not endure it, but ear and heart with 

a rapture of dark delight. 
With a terror and wonder whose care was joy, 

and a passion of thought set free, 
Felt inly the rising of doom divine as a sundawn 

risen to sight 

From the depths of the sea. 



DEDICATION 

The sea gives her shells to the shingle. 

The earth gives her streams to the sea ; 
They are many, but my gift is single. 

My verses, the firstfruits of me. 
Let the wind take the green and the grey leaf, 

Cast forth without fruit upon air; 
Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leaf 

Blown loose from the hair. 

The night shakes them round me in legions. 

Dawn drives them before her like dreams ; 
Time sheds them like snows on strange regions. 

Swept shoreward on infinite streams ; 
Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy. 

Dead fruits of the fugitive years ; 
Some stained as with wine and made bloody, 

And some as with tears. 



332 fsOttt }^ma( of fatoivbnmt 

Some scattered in seven years' traces, 

As they fell from the boy that was then ; 
' Long left among idle green places, 

Or gathered but now among men ; 
On seas full of wonder and peril, 

Blown white round the capes of the north ; 
Or in islands where myrtles are sterile 

And loves bring not forth. 

O daughters of dreams and of stories 

That life is not wearied of yet, 
Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores, 

Felise and Yolande and Juliette, 
Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you. 

When sleep, that is true or that seems. 
Comes back to me hopeless to kiss you, 

O daughters of dreams ? 

They are past as a slumber that passes. 

As the dew of a dawn of old time ; 
More frail than the shadows on glasses. 

More fleet than a wave or a rhyme. 
As the waves after ebb drawing seaward. 

When their hollows are full of the night. 
So the birds that flew singing to me-ward 

Recede out of sight. 

The songs of dead seasons, that wander 
On wings of articulate words ; 



aortitatioti 333 

Lost leaves that the shore-wind may squander, 

Light flocks of untamable birds ; 
Some sang to me dreaming in class-time 

And truant in hand as in tongue ; 
For the youngest were bom of boy's pastime. 

The eldest are young. 

Is there shelter while life in them lingers, 

Is there hearing for songs that recede, 
Tunes touched from a harp with man's fingers 

Or blown with boy's mouth in a reed ? 
Is there place in the land of your labour. 

Is there room in your world of delight. 
Where change has not sorrow for neighbour 

And day has not night ? 

In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers. 

Will you spare not a space for them there. 
Made green with the running of rivers 

And gracious with temperate air; 
In the fields and the turreted cities, 

That cover from sunshine and rain 
Fair passions and bountiful pities 

And loves without stain ? 

In a land of clear colours and stories. 

In a region of shadowless hours. 
Where earth has a garment of glories 

And a murmur of musical flowers ; 



334 9»t\M Tjl^wM of ^mbume 

In woods where the spring half uncovers 
The flush of her amorous face, 

By the waters that listen for lovers, 
For these is there place ? 

For the song-birds of sorrow, that muflie 

Their music as clouds do their fire : 
For the storm-birds of passion, that ruflie 

Wild wings in a Wind of desire j 
In the stream of the storm as it settles 

Blown seaward, borne far from the sun. 
Shaken loose on the darkness like petals 

Dropt one after one ? 

Though the world of your hands be more 
gracious. 

And lovelier in lordship of things. 
Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious 

Warm heaven of her imminent wings. 
Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting. 

For the love of old loves and lost times ; 
And receive in your palace of painting 

This revel of rhymes. 

Though the seasons of man full of losses 
Make empty the years full of youth. 

If but one thing be constant in crosses. 
Change lays not her hand upon truth ; 



a>rMc8tian 335 

Hopes die, and their tombs are for token 
That the grief as the joy of them ends 

Ere time that breaks all men has broken 
The faith between friends. 

Though the many lights dwindle to one light. 

There is help if the heaven has one ; 
Though the skies be discrowned of the sun- 
light 

And the earth dispossessed of the sun, 
They have moonlight and sleep for repayment. 

When, refreshed as a bride and set free, 
With stars and sea-winds in her raiment. 

Night sinks on the sea. 



DEDICATION 

Some nine years gone, as we dwelt together 
In the sweet hushed heat of the south French 
weather 
Ere autumn fell on the vine-tressed hills 
Or the season had shed one rose-red feather. 

Friend, whose fame is a flame that fills 
All eyes it lightens and hearts it thrills 

With joy to be born of the blood which bred 
From a land that the grey sea girds and chills 



33^ {Mm pomus of ^tDbibttme 

The heart and spirit and hand and head 
Whose might is as light on a dark day shed, 
On a day now dark as a land's decline 
Where all the peers of your praise are dead. 

In a land and season of corn and vine 

I pledged you a health from a beaker of mine 

But halfway filled to the lip's edge yet 
With hope for honey and song for wine. 

Nine years have risen and eight years set 
Since there by the wellspring our hands on it met : 
And the pledge of my songs that were then 

to be, 
I could wonder not, friend, though a friend 

should forget. 

For life's helm rocks to the windward and lee. 
And time is as wind, and as waves as we ; 

And song is as foam that the sea-winds fret. 
Though the thought at its heart should be deep 
as the sea. 



METRICAL EXPERIMENTS, 
IMITATIONS, AND PARODIES 



HENDECASYLLABICS 

In the month of the long decline of roses 
I7~Befo)I3ing the summer dead^ before riie, 
Set niy face to the sea and Journeyed silent, 
Gazin^eagerly^wheire above the sea-mark 
Flame as fierce as the fervid eyes of lions 
Half oivideil the eyelids "of the sunset ; 
Till I heard as it were a noise of waters 
Moving tremulous under feet of angels 
Multitudinous, out of all the heavens ; 
Knew the fluttering wind, the fluttered foliage. 
Shaken fitfully, full of sound and shadow ; 
And saw, trodden upon by noiseless angels. 
Long mysterious reaches fed with moonlight. 
Sweet sad straits in a soft subsiding channel. 
Blown about by the lips of winds I knew not. 
Winds not bom in the north nor any quarter, 
Winds not warm with the south nor any sunshine. 
Heard between them a voice of exultation, 
^^ Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded. 



33^ $Mrct Tjl^tma of ^tuinbumr 

Even like as a leaf the year is withered. 

All the fruits of the day from all her branches 

Gathered, neither is any left to gather. 

All the flowers are dead, the tender blossoms. 

All are taken away ; the season wasted. 

Like an ember among the fallen ashes. 

Now with light of the winter days, with moonlight. 

Light of snow, and the bitter light of hoar-frost. 

We bring flowers that fade not after autumn. 

Pale white chaplets and crowns of latter seasons. 

Fair false leaves (but the summer leaves were 

falser). 
Woven under the eyes of stars and planets 
When low light was upon the windy reaches 
Where the flower of foam was blown, a lily 
Dropt among the sonorous fruitless furrows 
And green fields of the sea that make no pasture : 
Since the winter begins, the weeping winter. 
All whose flowers are tears, and round his temples 
Iron blossom of frost is bound for ever." 



SAPPHICS 

All the night sleep came not upon my eyelids. 
Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather. 
Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of iron 

Stood and beheld me. 



ftSffUlkt 339 

Then to me so lying awake a vision _ . 

Came w ithout sleep over tKe seas and touched me, 
Softly ^touches mme eyelids and lips j aKd 1 too, 

Full of the vision. 

Saw the white implacable Aphrodite, 
Saw the hair unbound and the feet unsandaled 
Shine as fire of sunset on western waters ; 

Saw the reluctant 



\j -- 



Feet, the straining plumes of the doves that 

drew her j^ ^ u. / — « / - i^ 

L(Klkiii^ Always, /looking withr necks reverted. 
Back to JLesbos/back to tlie tulls wfi^exinier 
Shone Mitylene ; 

Heard the flying feet of the Loves behind her 
Make a sudden thunder upon the waters, 
As the thunder flung from the strong unclosing 

Wings of a great wind. 

So the goddess fled from her place, with awful 
Sound of feet and thunder of wings around her ; 
While behind a clamour of singing women 
Severed the twilight. 

Ah the singing, ah the delight, the passion ! 
All the Loves wept, listening ; sick with anguish. 



340 jMm Tji^tmg of fsiBiv^mmt 

Stood the crowned nine Muses about Apollo ; 

Fear was upon them, 

While the tenth sang wonderful things they 

knew not. 
Ah the tenth, the Lesbian ! the nine were silent. 
None endured the sound of her song for weep- 
ing; 

Laurel by laurel, 

Faded all their crowns ; but about her forehead. 
Round her woven tresses and ashen temples 
White as dead snow, paler than grass in sum- 
mer, 

Ravaged with kisses, 

Shone a light of fire as a crown for ever. 
Yea, almost the implacable Aphrodite 
Paused, and almost wept ; such a song was that 
song. 

Yea, by her name too 

Called her, saying, "Turn to me, O my 

Sappho ; " 
Yet she turned her face from the Loves, she 

saw not 
Tears for laughter darken immortal eyelids. 

Heard not about her 



Fearful fitful wings of the doves departing, 
Saw not how the bosom of Aphrodite 
Shook with weeping, saw not her shaken rai- 
ment, 

Saw not her hands wrung ; 

Saw the Lesbians kissing across their smitten 
Lutes with lips more sweet than the sound of 

lute-strings, 
Mouth to mouth and hand upon hand, her 

chosen. 

Fairer than all men ; 

Only saw the beautiful lips and fingers. 
Full of songs and kisses and little whispers. 
Full of music ; only beheld among them 

Soar, as a bird soars 

Newly fledged, her visible song, a marvel. 
Made of perfect sound and exceeding passion. 
Sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thunders. 

Clothed with the wind's wings. 

Then rejoiced she, laughing with love, and 

scattered 
Roses, awful roses of holy blossom ; 
Then the Loves thronged sadly with hidden faces 

Round Aphrodite, 



342 fsdta ipomitf of jbtoiitlmme 

Then the Muses, stricken at heart, were silent ; 
Yea, the gods waxed pale ; such a song was that 

song. 
All reluctant, all with a fresh repulsion. 

Fled from before her. 

All withdrew long since, and the land was barren. 
Full of fruitless women and music only. 
Now perchance, when winds are assuaged at 
sunset. 

Lulled at the dewfall. 

By the grey seaside, unassuaged, unheard of, 
Unbeloved, unseen in the ebb of twilight. 
Ghosts of outcast women return lamenting. 

Purged not in Lethe. 

Clothed about with flame and with tears, and 

singing 
Songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven. 
Songs that break the heart of the earth with pity. 

Hearing, to hear them. 

CHORIAMBICS 

Love, what ailed thee to leave life that was 
made lovely, we thought, with love ? 

What sweet visions of sleep lured thee away, 
down from the light above ? 



Cliortatiibicfli 343 

What strange faces of dreams, voices that called, 
hands that were raised to wave, 

Lured or led thee, alas, out of the sun, down to 
the sunless grave ? 

Ah, thy luminous eyes ! once was their light fed 

with the fire of day j 
Now their shadowy lids cover them close, hush 

them and hide away. 

Ah, thy snow-coloured hands ! once were they 
chains, mighty to bind me fast ; 

Now no blood in them bums, mindless of love, 
senseless of passion past. 

Ah, thy beautiful hair ! so was it once braided 

for me, for me ; 
Now for death is it crowned, only for death, 

lover and lord of thee. 

Sweet, the kisses of death set on thy lips, colder 

are they than mine ; 
Colder surely than past kisses that love poured 

for thy lips as wine. 

Lov*st thou death ? is his face fairer than love's, 

brighter to look upon ? 
Seest thou light in his eyes, light by which love's 

pales and is overshone ? 



344 ^sdttt !|^ftti0 of &bMbwnit 

Lo, the roses of death, grey as the dust, chiller 

of leaf than snow ! 
Why let fall from thy hand loves that were 

thine, roses that loved thee so ? 

Large red lilies of love, sceptral and tall, lovely 

for eyes to see ; 
Thornless blossom of love, full of the sun, fruits 

that were reared for thee. 

Now death's poppies alone circle thy hair, girdle 

thy breasts as white; 
Bloodless blossoms of death, leaves that have 

sprung never against the light. 

Nay then, sleep if thou wilt ; love is content ; 

what should he do to weep ? 
Sweet was love to thee once ; now in thine eyes 

sweeter than love is sleep. 



( 



€Hanh €l9omg of HBfeM 345 

GRAND CHORUS OF BIRDS FROM 

ARISTOPHANES 

Attewtpttd in EngRsk vtrsi afttr tie origtHoI wutrt 

THE BIRDS 
(68s-7»3) 

Come on then, ye dwellers byjiature in dark- 
ness, ana lIEe to^the leaves' generations, 

That are little of might, that are moulded of mire, 
unenduring and shadowlike nations, 

Poor plumeless ephemerals, comfortless mortals, 
as visions of creatures fast fleeing. 

Lift up your mind unto us that are deathless, 
and dateless the date of our being : 

Us, children of heaven, us, ageless for aye, us, 
all of whose thoughts are eternal ; 

That ye may from henceforth, having heard of 
us all things aright as to matters supernal. 

Of the being of birds and beginning of gods, and 
of streams, and the dark beyond reaching, 

Truthfully knowing aright, in my name bid 
Prodicus pack with his preaching. 

It was Chaos and Night at the first, and the 
blackness of darkness, and hell's broad 
border. 



34^ ^\M Tji^uma of ^^toitimmf 

Earth was not, nor air, neither heaven ; when in 

depths of the womb of the dark without 

order 
First thing first-born of the black-plumed Night 

was a wind-egg hatched in her bosom, 
Whence timely with seasons revolving again 

sweet Love burst out as a blossom. 
Gold wings glittering forth of his back, like 

whirlwinds gustily turning. 
He, after his wedlock with Chaos, whose wings 

are of darkness, in hell broad-burning. 
For his nestlings begat him the race of us first, 

and upraised us to light new-lighted. 
And before this was not the race of the gods, 

until all things by Love were united ; 
And of kind united with kind in communion of 

nature the sky and the sea are 
Brought forth, and the earth, and the race of the 

gods everlasting and blest. So that we are 
Far away the most ancient of all things blest. 

And that we are of Love's generation 
There are manifest manifold signs. We have 

wings, and with us have the Loves hab- 
itation ; 
And manifold fair young folk that forswore love 

once, ere the bloom of them ended. 
Have the men that pursued and desired them 

subdued, by the help of us only be- 
friended, 



€ima^ €lfO€wt U lBba» 347 

With such baits as a quail, a flamingo, a goose, 
or a cock's comb staring and splendid. 

All best good things that befall men come from 
us birds, as is plain to all reason : 

For first we proclaim and make known to them 
spring, and the winter and autumn in 
season ; 

Bid sow, when the crane starts clanging for Afric, 
in shrill-voiced emigrant number. 

And calls to the pilot to hang up his rudder again 
for the season, and slumber ; 

And then weave a cloak for Orestes the thief, 
lest he strip men of theirs if it freezes. 

And again thereafter the kite reappearing an- 
nounces a change in the breezes. 

And that here is the season for shearing your 
sheep of their spring wool. Then does 
the swallow 

Give you notice to sell your greatcoat, and pro- 
vide something light for the heat that 's 
to follow. 

Thus are we as Ammon or Delphi unto you, 
Dodona, nay, Phoebus Apollo. 

For, as first ye come all to get auguries of birds, 
even such is in all things your carriage. 

Be the matter a matter of trade, or of earning 
your bread, or of any one's marriage. 



348 fidttt l^rtttf of jtolnbome 

And all things ye lay to the charge of a bird that 
belong to discerning prediction : 

Winged fame is a bird, as you reckon : you 
sneeze, and the sign's as a bird for con- 
viction : 

All tokens are ^^ birds '* with you — sounds too, 
and lackeys, and donkeys. Then must 
it not follow 

That we are to you all as the manifest godhead 
that speaks in prophetic Apollo ? 

A JACOBITE'S FAREWELL 

1716 

There's nae mair lands to tyne, my dear. 

And nae mair lives to gie : 
Though a man think sair to live nae mair. 

There's but one day to die. 

For a' things come and a' days gane. 
What needs ye rend your hair ? 

But kiss me till the morn's morrow. 
Then I'll kiss ye nae mair. 

O lands are lost and life's losing. 

And what were they to gie ? 
Fu' mony a man gives all he can. 

But nae man else gives ye. 



9i BlaKdrfcftf Htffk 349 

Our king wons ower the sea's water. 

And I in prison sair : 
But I'll win out the morn's morrow. 

And ye'll see me nae main 

A JACOBITE'S EXILE 

1746 

The weary day rins down and dies, 
The weary night wears through : 

And never an hour is fair wi' flower. 
And never a flower wi' dew. 

I would the day were night for me, 

I would the night were day : 
For then would I stand in my ain fair land. 

As now in dreams I may. 

O lordly flow the Loire and Seine, 

And loud the dark Durance : 
But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne 

Than a' the fields of France : 
And the waves of Till that speak sae still 

Gleam goodlier where they glance. 

O weel were they that fell fighting 

On dark Drumossie's day : 
They keep their hame ayont the faem. 

And we die far away. 



;o fstlitt ipomitf of j^inlmnie 

O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep. 

But night and day wake we ; 
And ever between the sea-banks green 

Sounds loud the sundering sea. 

And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep. 

But sweet and fast sleep they ; 
And the mool that haps them roun* and laps 
them 

Is c*cn their country's clay ; 
But the land we tread that are not dead 

Is strange as night by day. 

Strange as night in a strange man's sight. 

Though fair as dawn it be : 
For what is here that a stranger's cheer 

Should yet wax blithe to see ? 

The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep. 

The fields are greeii and gold : 
The hill-streams sing, and the hill-sides ring. 

As ours at home of old. 

But hills and flowers are nane of ours. 

And ours are oversea : 
And the kind strange land whereon we stand. 

It wotsna what were we 
Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame. 

To try what end might be. 



9i ^ztMtfg atfSk 351 

Scathe, and shame, and a waefu' name. 

And a weary time and strange, 
Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing 

Can die, and cannot change. 

Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn. 

Though sair be they to dree : 
But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide, 

Mair keen than wind and sea. 

Ill may we thole the night's watches. 

And ill the weary day : 
And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, 

A waefu' gift gie they; 
For the sangs they sing us, the sights they bring us, 

The morn blaws all away. 

On Atkenshaw the sun blinks braw. 

The burn rins blithe and fain : 
There's nought wi* me I wadna gie 

To look thereon again. 

On Keilder-side thje wind blaws wide : 

There sounds nae hunting-horn 
That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat 

Round banks where Tyne is born. 

The Wansbeck sings with all her springs. 
The bents and braes give ear; 



352 jMm ipomitf of ^toinbttmr 

But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings 

I may not see nor hear ; 
For far and far thae blithe burns are. 

And strange is a' thing near. 

The light there lightens, the day there bright- 
ens, 
The loud wind there lives free : 
Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by 
me 
That I wad hear or see. 

But O gin I were there again, 

Afar ayont the faem, 
Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed 

That haps my sires at hame ! 

We'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair. 
And the sweet grey gleaming sky, 

And the lordly strand of Northumberland, 
And the goodly towers thereby : 

And none shall know but the winds that 
blow 
The graves wherein we lie. 



W^t ^i^tt Tjfimt^tigm in a i^itt«|irU 353 

THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A 

NUTSHELL 

One, who is not, we see : but one, whom we 

see not, is : 
Surely this is not that: but that is assuredly 

this. 

What, and wherefore, and whence ? for under 

is over and under : 
If thunder could be without lightning, lightning 

could be without thunder. 

Doubt is faith in the main : but faith, on the 
whole, is doubt : 

We cannot believe by proof: but could we be- 
lieve without ? 

Why, and whither, and how ? for barley and rye 

are not clover : 
Neither are straight lines curves: yet over is 

under and over. 

Two and two may be four, but four and four 

are not eight : 
Fate and God may be twain : but God is the 

same thing as fate. 



354 JMftt Tf^tWLt of fsMxiltwnnt 

Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man 

what he feels : 
God, once caught in the fact, shows you a fair 

pair of heels. 

Body and spirit are twins : God only knows 

which is which : 
The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker 

drunk in a ditch. 

More is the whole than a part : but half is more 

than the whole : 
Clearly, the soul is the body : but is not the body 

the soul ? 

One and two are not one : but one and nothing 

is two : 
Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot 

be true. 

Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were 

common as cocks : 
Then the mammoth was God : now is He a 

prize ox. 

Parallels all things are : yet many of these are 

asked : 
You are certainly I: but certainly I am not 

you. 



{botmet for a f^ictutr 355 

Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream 

from the rock : 
Cocks exist for the hen, but hens exist for the 

cock. 

God, whom we see not, is : and God, who is 

not, we see : 
Fiddle, we know, is diddle : and diddle, we take 

it, is dee. 

SONNET FOR A PICTURE 

That nose is out of drawing. With a gasp, 
She pants upon the passionate lips that ache 
With the red drain of her own mouth, and 
make 

A monochord of colour. Like an asp. 

One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant grasp. 
Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to bake 
Love's warm white shewbread to a browner 
cake. 

Tlie lock his fingers clench has burst its hasp. 

The legs are absolutely abominable. 

Ah ! what keen overgust of wild-eyed woes 
Flags in that bosom, flushes in that nose ? 

Nay ! Death sets riddles for desire to spell. 

Responsive. What red hem earth's passion 
sews, 

But may be ravenously unripped in hell ? 



35^ f^AntTjfiottM of &tDin\nmu 

NEPHELIDIA 

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the 

dawn through a notable nimbus of nebu- 
lous noonshine. 
Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower 

that flickers with fear of the flies as they 

float, 
Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean 

from a marvel of mystic miraculous 

moonshine. 
These that we feel in the blood of our blushes 

that thicken and threaten with throbs 

through the throat ? 
Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal 

of an actor's appalled agitation. 
Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than 

pale with the promise of pride in the past ; 
Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that 

reddens with radiance of rathe recreation. 
Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam 

through the gloom of the gloaming when 

ghosts go aghast ? 
Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a 

tremulous touch on the temples of terror. 
Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife 

of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps 

of death : 



ipertelflrfa 357 

Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic 
emotional exquisite error, 
Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific 
itself by beatitudes' breath. 
Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft 
to the spirit and soul of our senses 
Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that 
sobs in the semblance and sound of a 
sigh; 
Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical 

moods and triangular tenses — 
^^ Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is 
dark till the dawn of the day when we die." 
Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of 
memory, melodiously mute as it may be, 
While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised 
by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned 
to the rod ; 
Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats 
bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a 
balm-breathing baby. 
As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, 
under skies growing green at a groan for 
the grimness of God. 
Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, 
and its binding is blacker than bluer : 
Out of blue into black is the scheme of the 
skies, and their dews are the wine of the 
bloodshed of things ; 



3s8 &t\ttt ipoetitf of fsAoixfimmt 

Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free 
as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that 
pursue her, 
Till die heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by 
a hymn from the hunt that has harried 
the kennel of kings. 



Cl^i^onological ILijut of Wvitinq;^ 

i860. The Queen Mother, and Rotamond. 
1865. Atahinta in Calydon. 

1865. Chastelard : A Tragedy. 

1866. Poems and Ballads. 

1866. Note on Poems and Reviews. 

1867. A Song of Italy. 

1868. Siena. 

1868. William Blake : A Critical Essay. * 

1870. Ode on the Proclamation of the French Republic; Sep- 
tember 4th, 1870. 
1 8 71. Songs before Sunrise. 
1872 Under the Microscope. 

1874. Bothwell: A Tragedy. 

1875. George Chapman. 
1875. Essays and Studies. 

1875. Songs of Two Nations (A Song of Italy, Ode on the Pro- 

clamation of the French Republic, and Dirae). 

1876. Erechtheus: A Tragedy. 

1876. Note of an English Republican on the MuKovite Crusade. 

1877. A Note on Charlotte Bronte. 

1878. Poems and Ballads. Second Series. 
1880. A Study of Shakespeare. 

1880. Songs of the Springtides. 
1880. Studies in Song. 

1880. Specimens of Modem Poets. The Heptalogia j or, the 

Seven against Sense. A Cap with Seven Bells. 

1 88 1. Mary Stuart: A Tragedy. 

1882. Tristram of Lyonesse, and Other Poems. 

1883. A Century of Roundels. 

1884. A Midsummer Holiday, and Other Poems. 

1885. Marino Faliero : A Tragedy. 



360 Clironolosteal ILto of WBiitinsii 

1886. A Study of Victor Hugo. 

1886. Miacellaniet. 

1887. A Word for the Navy. 
1887. Locrine : A Tragedy. 
1889. A Study of Ben Jonton. 

1889. Poeint and Ballads. Third Series. 

189s. The Sisters : A Tragedy. 

1894. Astrophel, and Other Poems. 

1894. Studies in Prose and Poetiy. 

1896. The Tale of Balen. 

1899. Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards. 

1904. A Channel Passage, and Other Poems. 

This list includes aU of Swinburne's works that have appeared 
as individual publications with title-pages of their own. To them 
should be added DeaJ Love (in Once-a-fFeek^ i86s), and A 
Yearns Letters^ by Mrs. Horace Manners (in Tht Toiler ^ 1877). 



'Bfblfosrapi^tcal ^ote 

There is a BiUiogrMpiy of Swinburne*! wiidngi by Richard 
Heme Shepherd, covering the period 1 857-1 887. The English 
editioat of Swinburne are published by Chatto and Windus. Thejr 
include all the Tohunes mentioned in the Chronological LJst, 
several of them being out of print. There is also a volume olF 
St/ict Ptimt {fiat author's selection, 1887) containing examples 
fiom fourteen volumes of poems and plays. The same publishers 
issue the complete Pttiud H^orh^ in six volumes (including 
Aiahnui in Cdyimi and Ertekthetui). They are also to issue the 
Drmmatie H^th^ in five volumes. There are early American 
editions of Thi ^uttn Mthgrand Roismond (Ticknor ft Fields), 
Chasttlsrd fHok), AtaUmta in Calydon (Holt), and Poms and 
Ballad* I. (Carleton). The last-named volume is entitled Lout 
Veniris and alters the arrangement of the contents. A dozen 
or more volumes of verse and prose were reprinted by the Worth- 
bgton Co., who supplied the American noarket for a term of 
years. Tki Tale of Balen bears the imprint of Charles Scribner's 
Sons, who also have upon their list the entire series of the original 
English editions, excepting those out of print. Tht Sisters was 
published by the United States Book Co., and Rosamund, Sluetn 
of the Lombards J by Dodd, Mead & Co. A so-called ** comfdete 
edkion ** of the Poerieal fForks Q. D. Williams, 1884) bchides 
in a angle volume six d the pbiys, and the contents, wholly or in 
part, of nx volumes of the poems. It is shoddngly misprinted. A 
volume of Selections (Crowell, 1884), with introduction by R. H. 
Stoddard, reprints the two Greek dramas, the Mary Stuart trilogy 
complete, and a large number of the poems. The tasteful Mosher 
reprints include Atalanta in Calydonj Songs before Sunrise, the three 
series (^ Poems and Ballads, Tristram of Lyonesse and Othtr Poems, 
The Heptalogia, Under the Microscope, A Year's Letters, and Dead 
Love, Harper & Brothers are the American publishers of the new 



3^2 ISibUosnqil^ i^oce 

ibuidard editkm of the Poetical 0^§rbf in nx Tduiiiety and the 
Dramatic fForks^ in fire Tt^unaet. 

Poole*t Indtx proridet hundreds of references to contemporary 
reriewt oS Swinbome. The most important document for the 
itudy of his poetry is the dedicatory epistle to Theodore Watts- 
Dunton, prefixed by the author to the new uniform edition of his 
Poetical Works, This ofien a r etrospe c t of his whole fitenuy 
career. He has not yet been made the subject (^ much critical 
examination of the more serious sort. H. B. Forman*s chapter in 
Our Living Poets, Lowell*s essay, and Stoddard's introducdoa 
(above-mentioned) are examples of angularly supeificial and un- 
generoos criticism. On the other hand, £. C. Stedman*s chapter in 
the yietvrian Poets has high critical value, and is probably the most 
important treatment of Swinburne that has thus far been made. 
Modem Poets and Cosnde Law, by Frederic Myers Qn Science and 
a Frntun Lift), m both appreciative and suggestive. There are 
two interesting chapters in George Saintibury*s Corrected Impret" 
sions, James Doughs, in the new edition of Chambers's Cyclopedia 
of English Literature, gives a just and sympathetic estimate. 
Other studies include the following: Frands Adams, Essays in 
Modernity ; Alfred Austin, Poetry of the Period i W. L. Court- 
ney, Studies New and Old; J. V. Cheney, The Golden Guess ^ 
Vida D. Scudder, The Life of the Spirit in the Modern English 
Poets, and W. M. Payne, in Warner's Lihrary of the World's 
Best Literature. Among continental estimates may be mentioned : 
Wollaeger, Studien Uher Swinburne's Poetitcken Stil ; G. Sarrasn, 
Poetes Modernes de PAt^leterre, and Paul de Reul, Swinburne et 
la France. The only book upon Swinburne thus far published is 
the study by Theodore Wratislaw, an uncritically eulopstic produc- 
tion of dight value. 



0ott^ 



If any excnie were needed for the danified arrangement chosen for 
dik volume oi tekcted poems, it might be found in Swinburne*! own 
words : ** It might be thought pedandc or pretentious in a modem 
poet to divide his poems af^ the old Roman £uhion into sections 
and classes. I must confess that I should like to see this method 
applied, were it but by way of experiment in a sin^ edition, to the 
work of the leading poets of our own country and century : to see, 
for instance, their lyrical and eleg^c works ranged and re^stered 
apart, each kind in a class of its own, such as is usually reserved, I 
know not why, for sonnets only. The apparent formality of such 
an arrangement as would give us, for instance, the odes of Cole- 
ridge and Shelley collected into a distinct reservation or division 
might possibly be more than compensated to the more capable 
among students by the gain in ethical or spiritual sjrmmetry and 
aesthetic or intellectual harmony.** 

X. Athens : an Oos. Tristram •/ Lytmeut and Other Poems, 
Dated April, 1881. This is Swinburne's most perfect example of 
the Pindaric ode, with the r^ular sequence of stn^he, andstrophe, 
and epode. ** The Greek form . . . not to be imitated because 
it is Greek, but to be adopted because it is best.** Hisearliest work 
in this form was the OJe en the Insurrection in CanJia (1867), 
of which he says : ** I doubt whether it quite succeeded in evading 
the criminal risk and the capital oflfence of formality. . . . But in 
my later ode on Athens, absolutely faithful as it is to the strictest 
type and the most stringent law of Pindaric hymnology, I venture 
to believe that there is no more sign of this infirmity than in the 
less claswcally regulated poem on the Armada. ... By the test 
of these two poems I am content that my claims should be decided 
and my station determined as a lyric poet in the higher sense of the 
term." 



364 iltoces 



X, 5. The first-born oliTe-bloStOOL The ofire wattbe 
gift of Athene to her chosen cky at the time of the Tictofjover 
PMeidonand the hotts of the tea. 

5, 5. Yonr battle-err was healing. Pcan, or Paian 

(the healer); in Homer, the ph3rnciatt of the Olympian gods, after- 
wards an epkhet oif ApoUo, used in a more general sense as an inro- 
cation to the gods, especially a prayer for Tictory. 

8, 3. The great chryselephantine God. The cokmal 
tfBtne of Zens at Olympia, made of ivory and gold by Phidias. 

xo, I. Well-beloTedHarmodinsand Aristogeiton. 
A fine from the scholion which cclcb ntt e s these patriotic assatant. 

xo, 6. The Feast Panathen«an. The ancient festiTal 
In honor of Athene. 

XOy 7. The Cyprian dore. Cyprus was fiunoos for its 
doves, whkh were sacred to Aphrodite. 

xoi, 14. Mild-winged maidens. The chorus of Oceani- 
des m the Prowtetktiu Bmnd of i£schylas. 

XI, 14. He may smite me, etc See .Asch^us, Pr^- 

wtttAems Bound^ 1053. ^ 

X2, I. The SOTOnfold Stomi»etc. iEschylus, TJUSt^ftm 

gainst Thtbtt, 

X2, 3. Sang the flight, etc i£schylus, Tki Smppliamu, 
X2, 7. King of kings, etc See i£schylus. The Suppli- 

OHtSf 524 (Teubner). 

12, 10. When of Salamis, etc i£schyltis, TJkg Ptr^ 
aant. 

X2, 14. The birth of Leda's womb. Helen. 

13, %, The twin-bom human-fathered sister- 
flower. ClytKmnestra, daughter of Leda and Tyndareos. 

13, 3. Scarce the cry, etc See iEschyhis, PromitJkeui 
Bound f 88—91. 

13, 7. The murderous word, etc See iEschyhis, 

j^amemnoftf 1555-59 (Teubner). 

13, 9. The latter note of anguish, etc See i£schy- 

lus, Chdephoray 896-98 (Teubner). 

14, 4. Sleep ye, etc See iEschylus, Euwunidts^ 94 
(Teubner). 

X4» 8- More than ye was she, etc. More than the 



Furies was the thide of Cljrtnnnettra, whom no god save Athene 
(Wisdom) might withstand. 

14, 10. Yea, no God may stand, etc. In the Emmen' 

iJeSf Athene gives the casting vote for the acquittal oi Orestes, 
and placates the Furies, reconciling them to her deduon. 

ZA, IS. Light whose law, etc. See dose of EtmtniMs. 
Childless Children, etc. Eumenida^ 1034 (Teubner). 

15, 5. Rose and vine and olive, etc. A suggestion of 
die epitaph upon Sophodes by Simmias of Thebes, thus translated 
\tf Phunptre : 

** Creep gendy, ivy, ever" gendy creep. 

Where Sophocles sleeps on in calm repose \ 
Thy pale green tresses o*er the marble sweep. 

While all around shall bloom the purpling rose. 
There let the vine with rich full dusters hang, 

Its fiur young tendrils fling around the stone ; 
Due meed for that sweet wisdom which he sang, 

By Muses and by Graces called their own.** 

z6, 3-8. These lines are a free translation of Sophodes, Anti-' 
gtnt, 7S1-90. 

z6, 13. As the music mingling, etc. The chorus 
which accompanies Antigone to her tomb. 

Z8, s. Would that fate, etc. See Sophodes, (EMput 
T^rannus^ 863 tqj. 

Z8, 12. The haunt closed in, etc. See Sophodes, CES- 
pus at Colonus, 668 s^, and 126-30. 

19, 3. There her fiither, etc. See dosing scene of (Edi' 
pus at Co/onus, 

19, 7. Third of three. Aristophanes. 

20, I. Loxian, An epithet of Apollo, meanuig the Obscure. 
20, 6. Doria. Andrea Doria(i468-i 560). A great Genoese 

admiral who in 1 529, refusing a crown, established popular govern- 
ment in Genoa. 

20, 6. Dandolo. The first Venetian Doge of that name. 
Bom 1 1 10-15, ^^ 1105. He greatiy extended the power of 
the Venetian republic 

20, 7. Ausonia. Italy. 



366 0Mti 

22, Thx Ammada, Potms and Ballad*^ m. For Swinbume's 
cfdmate of thk ode see note to Athens. 

26, 7. They that ride, etc. An ancient English rhymed 
(wophecy of unknown authorship. 

33, 8. Python. The serpent of the caves of Pamassoty 
slain iff Apollo with his first arrows. 

34, 9. Their chiefl Alonso de Guzman, Duke of Medina- 
Sidonia. 

40, 4. Oqnendo. Miguel de Oquendo, commander of one 
of the squadrons d the Armada, who won great distinction during 
the battle, and brought a fragment of the fleet safely home to San 
Sd>astian. 

50. Oos ON THS Proclamation or thi Fkxnch Rbpubuc. 
Songs of Two Nations. Dedicated to Victor Hugo. Dated 
Sept. 4, 1870. The Greek motto is fi'om i^schylus, Agamemnon ^ 
121. Swinburne translates it, '* O7 wellaway, but weU befall the 
right,** in his poem, ji Year*s Burden {Songs before Sunrise). 

67* Thi Gaidin op Piosekpini. Poems and B^dlads^ i. 
'*Of all Swinbume*s poems, perhaps the most wonderful, with 
melody £uthest beyond the reach of any other still living man, is 
that Garden of Proserpine, whose close represents in well-known 
words the deep life-weariness of men who have had enough of love.*' 
Frederic Myers. There is a curious resemblance between this poem 
and Christma RoMetti*s Dream-4and^ published in 1862. 

71. Hymn to Pioskrpini. Poems and Ballads^ i. The 
Latin motto, '* Thou hast conquered, Galilean,** condsts of the 
apocryphal words attributed to the dying Julian by Christian writers. 
The story is first told by Theodoretus, a Greek Christian father of 
the fifth century. 

79. Author*s foot-note. 

Thou art a little soul bearing up a corpse. — Epictetus. 

79. Thx Last Oiaclx. Poems and Ballads^ n. The Greek 
motto runs literally as follows : Tell the king that the daedal dwell- 
ing has feUen to the'ground ; Phoebus no longer has a cell, nor 
a prophetic laurel, nor a water-spring that q>eaks : even the q>eak- 
ing water is quenched. This was the oracle delivered at Delphi 
to the Emperor Julian m 361 A. D. " That voice seems rather 
to have been, in Plutarch*s phrase, « a cry floating of itself over sol|- 



/ 

fioui 367 

tiry placet,* than the deliYerance of any recognited prieiten, or from 
any abiding ahrine. For no thrine was standing more. The words 
which answered the Emperor Ju]ian*s search were but the whiq>er of 
desolation, the hat and loveuest expression of a sancti^ that had 
passed away/* Frederic Myers. 

80, 17. Paian. See note 5, 5. 

82, 9. Son of God the smning son of time. Apollo, 
son of 2Leus, the son of Cronus. Here Cronus is confused with 
Chronos (Time), an ernnr into which the dasncal writers fre- 
quently feU. 

87. HxATHA. Songs befort Sunrise. Hertha was a goddess 
worshipped by the ancient Germans, according to Tacitus, the 
earth-goddess, with an island-thrine, possibly Rugen. 

97. Hymn or Man. Songs he/ore Sunrise, The twenty-first 
CEcumenical Council met in Rome December 8, 1869, and re- 
mained in sesnon until the following summer. It voted for the 
dogma of papal infallibtli^ July 18, 1870. Sivinbume brackets the 
Hymn to Proserpine and the Hymn of Man as ** the deathsong of 
spiritual decadence and the birthsong of spiritual renascence. ''^s 

99, I. Was it Love brake forth, etc. Aristophanes, 7>l< 
Birds^ 696. 

Z09, II. Cry, cat yourselves, etc. As the priests of Baal 
mock«l by Elijah, i Kings 18, a8. 

Z 12, Pkkluds. Songs before Sunrise. 

Z'5> ^3* Msenads. Female Bacchantes, who worshipped 
Di<mysus with frenzied rites. 

1X6, 4. Thyiades. The Attic woman who joined m the 
Dionysiac orgies on Mount Parnassus. Thyia, a daughter of Cas- 
talius or Cephisseus, is said to have been the first to have sacrificed 
to Dionysus. 

Z 16, 6. Bassarid. The Bacchanals of Lydia and Thrace, 
clad in garments of fur. 

ZZ6, 19. Cotys. Cotys, or Cotytto, a Thracian goddess 
worshipped with orgiastic rites. See .^Sschylus, The Edonians 
(Fragment). Sc/uyjt lUrvf iv rots *H8«yol. August Cotys among 
the Edonians. 

ZZ9. SiKNA. Songs before Sunriu. 

Z2Z, ^, That saw Saint Catherine bodily. « Herpil- 



368 ipMK 



ffimafK to Avigiion Co racaO the I^)pe into Italjr at ill ndeemer f^^ 
the ditbactioai of the time it of coone the central act of St. Cath- 
erine*tlife, the great ahiffingagn of the greatncM of ipirit and genius 
of heroitm which di idng qi ahed thb daoghter of the people, and 
thoold yet keep her name lieth above the holy horde oi taints, in 
other records than the calendar. . . . The high and fixed passion 
of her heroic tempersntent i^res her a right to remembrance and 
honour of which ^ nurade-mongcn have done their best to dqnive 
her. ... By the light of tfaoee solid and actual qual&ies which 
ensure to her no ignoble pbce on the noble roH of Italian women 
who hare deserred well of Itdy, the record of her visioos and ecsta- 
sies may be read without contemptuous intolersnce of hysterical dis- 
ease. The rapturous visiottary and pissionate ascetic was in pUn 
matters ofthe earth as pure and practical a heroine as Joan of Arc.** 
Swinburne. Catherine (1347-13 80) was the daughter of a dyer 
of Siena. Her pilg ri mage to Avignon was undertdcen in 1 377, 
and resulted in the return of the Pope (Gregory XI. ) to Rome. 

Z2Z, 7* Where in pure hands she took the head, 
etc. " The story which tehs how she succeeded in humanising 
a criminal under sentence of death, and given over by the priests 
u a soul doomed and desperate; how the man thus rused and 
melted out of his fierce and bru^ despair besought her to sustain 
him to the last by her presence ; how, havmg accompanied him 
with comfort and support to the veiy scaflR»ld, and seen his head 
fidl, she took it up, and turning to the tpectatoi s who stood doubt- 
ful whether the poor wretch could be < saved,* kissed it in sign of 
her fiuth that his sins were forgiven him.** Swinburne. 

Z24, 4. The supreme Seren. Apparently a reference to 
Dante, ParaiBso, xxxn. The spirits of the blessed women in the 
Celestial Rose are thus ranked : Maiy, Eve, Rachel (with 
Beatrice), Sarah, Rebecca, Judith, and Ruth. 

Z24, 10. There on the dim side-chapel wall. In 

the church of San Domenico, where are the nescos by Bazsi 
(Sodoma) depicting scenes in the life of St. Catherine. 

Z35, 19. But blood and tears ye love not. *' In the 

Sienese Academy the two things notable to me were the de- 
tached wall-painting by Sodoma of the tortures of Christ bound to 
the pillar, and the divine though mutilated groups ofthe Graces in 



the centre of the main hall. The gk>ry and beauty of ancient 
sculpture refredi and satisfy bejrond eipiession a sense wholly 
wearied and wellnigh nauseated with contem[^tion of endless 
sanctities and agonies attempted by mediaeval art, while yet as 
handlfss as accident or barbarian has left the sculptured god- 
desses. * * Swinburne. 

za6, 15. Amathns. A place in Cyprus with a celebrated 
temple of Aphrodite. 

za7, 7* Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia. "Re- 
memlMBr me, who am la Pia.** Dante. Purgatorioj y, 133. 
<* When Buonconte da Montefeltro has fiiushed speaking, another 
spirit (that of Pia^ addresses Dante and begs him when he returns 
to the upper world to bear her in mind ; she then names herself, 
and states that she was bom. in Siena and died in the Maremma, 
the manner of her death being known to him who was her second 
husband.** Toynbee. The formerly accepted identification of thb 
lady with the wife of Baldo de* Tolomei has recently been dis- 
proved by Banchi and her personally is in doubt. 

Za8, I. Love made me, etc. A paraphrase of Purg, 
133-^, substituting «Loye** for « Siena ** and «Hate** for 
<*Maramna.** 

zaSy 19. The weary poet. Leopardi. 

The reference is to the poem AIP Italia, 

patria mia, vedo le mun e gli archi, 
£ le colonne e i simulacri e Terme 
Torn degli avi nostxi ; 

Ma la gloria non vedo, 

Non vedo il lauro ed il ferro ond*eran carchi 

1 nostri padri antichi. 

(O my country, I behold the walls and the arches, and the 
ffj^imna tnd the statues and the solitary towers of our ancestors $ 
but I behold not the glory, I behold not the laurel and the iron 
that were Ixmie by our fathers of old. ) 

131, 7. Trebia. A tributary of the Po, the scene of Han- 
nibal's victory (B. C. 218) and of Macdonald*s defeat by Suwarrow 

(1799)- 
131, 8. Mentana. The defeat of 6aribaldi*s volunteers by 

the combined Papal and French forces, Nov. 3, 1867. 



370 jpocnc 

131. PitlNDi AC Cadavbi. Songs btfort Sunriu. The tide 
ii the Jeiuitical formula of abtohite mhmiiiion to authori^r. Eyoi 
as a corpse. 

136. Ths Pilgbims. Songt before Sunriu, 

14 Z. Svraa Flvmima Babtlonis. Songs before Sunrise. See 
Psa/mSf 137. 

143, II. The horn of Eridanus. The delta of the 

rnrer Po. 

14^, 15. Aceldama. The field of blood. ActSy I, 19. 

Z48. Matxk Dolokosa. Songs before Sunriu. Motto horn 
Hugo : *' Cituen, said Enjobas to hLn, my mother is the Re- 
public.** 

153. Matbb Triomphaus. Songs before Sunrise, 

lOl, 13. That supreme song, etc. Presumably a refers 
ence to the poetry of Hugo. 

162. By thb Nokth Ska. Studies in Sof^. Dedicated to 
Walter Theodore Watti, the " brother ** of the introductory SGonet. 
*' The dreary beauty, inhuman if not unearthly in its desolation, of 
the innumerable crecJu and inlets, lined and paven with sea-bowers, 
which make of the salt marshes a fit and funereal setting, a fiital 
and appropriate foreground, for the supreme desolation of the rdics 
of Dunwich ; the beautiful and awful solitude of a wilderness on 
which the sea has forbidden man to build or live, overtopped and 
bounded by the tragic and ghastly solitude of a headland on which 
the sea has forbidden the works of human charity and piety to sur- 
vive. * * Swinburne. 

167, 17. In the valley he named of decision. Joel, 

3» 14. 

169. In Swinbume*s Select Poems , Sections m. and it. are 

grouped by the author under the dtk In the Salt Marshes. 

172, II. The wise wave- wanderings steadfast- 
hearted g^est of many a lord of many a land. Odys- 
seus. The descent of the hero into Hades, and the intenaew vHth 
the ghost of Anticleia, his mother, are described in book xi. of the 
Odyssey, 

z8z. In the Select Poems^ Sections vi. and vn. are grouped 
under the title Dunvjtch, 

Z88. In Gubrnsby. A Century of Roundels. Dedicated to 
Theodore Watts. 



191, 12. Farinata. See Dante, Inferno^ 10, 32. A Ghi- 
belline leader who died in 1264, and it placed by Dante among the 
heretics in the City of Dis, in the tizth Circle of Hell. 

191, 13. Gcryon. SeeDante, /ii/»rffo, 16, 314^. Geryon 
was a winged giant with three bodies. He was slain by Hercvdes, 
who carried off his cattle. In Dante, he is made the symbd of 
fraud and guardian of Mald)dge. 

Z93> 5* Beloved and blest, etc. Victor Hugo. Haute- 
ville-House, on the island of Guernsey, was the home of Victor 
Hugo from 1856 to 1870. 

194. Masch : An Odi. Poemi and Ballads^ m. Dated 
1887. '^^'^ o>^y poem in octometers in the English language. 

199. A FoBSAKXN Gakdin. Pocms and Ballads^ u. 

204. OnthiVxkgb. a Midsummer Holiday end Other Poems, 
This is Section n. in ^ Midsummer Holiday, 

204, 6. Land's End. The southwestern extremity of Com- 
walL 

206. RlcoLUCTiONS. A Century of Roundels. 

209, 2. The mother of months. *'In May, that 

moder is of monthes glade.** Chaucer. Troilus and Criseydey n. 
50. Shelley, in Prometheus Unbound^ nr., calls the moon the 
mother of the months.** 

209, 6. Itylus. Aedon, wife of the Theban King Zethus, 
enirious of Niobe, her sister-in-law, for having nx sons, tries to kill 
the eldest, but by mistake kills her own son Itylus. Changed into 
a nightingale by Zeus, she forever bewails her lost son. 

2ZZ, 6. The Maenad and the Bassarid. See Notes 
ZZ5, 23, and 226, 6. 
2x3, 20. Rhodope. The highest mountain-range in Thrace. 
2Z4, 6. A God, a j^eat God strange of name. 

Boreas, who captured Oreithyia, daughter of Erechtheus, and 
carried her off to Thrace. 

2x7, 10. For the new bride's sake. Chthonia, daughter 

of Erechtheus, sacrificed by her fiither at the behest of the oracle, in 
consequence whereof the Eleuanians were defeated in their assault 
upon Athens. 

2Z8. Chokus. Th}s is the closing chorus of Erechtheus, and is 
perhaps the most extraordinary example of unbroken anapaestic 
rhythm to be found in Swinburne. 



372 0mM 

2x9. HispitiA. The Watem bud, Italy or Spain. 

22^, t. O my Dolores I SeeDoIoreSf P0€msanJ BmUmd$^ i. 

226. Two PaiLVDM. A Ontury 9f Rwndeh. Lohengrin 9bA 
Triaan und Isoide are two of the muacnlraiiiai <^ Rkhard Wagner. 

227. A Waitid Vigil. P9ems and Ballads, n. 

230. The SvNDBw. P§ms and Ballads, i. The tundew 
(Drotera) n best known to readen at an intectiyoroitf plant, de^Aed 
In the writings cf Darwin and other naturalifts. This is the onlj 
instance known to the editor of its use for poetical purposes. 

232. A Match. Poems and Ballads, i. 

234. Tmi Salt op thi EArm. Tristram of Lyonesse and 
Other Poems, 

235. Op Svoi is thb Kingdom op Hkatim. Tristram of 
L^esse and Other Poetnt. This is Section xxii. of the collection 
of childhood lyrics entitled A Dark Month, The poem has no title 
of its own. 

236. A Child's Laughtbi. Tristram of Lyonesse and Other 
Poems, 

237. A Child's Futvbx. Tristram of Lyonesse and Other 
Poems. 

239. A Babt*s Dkath. ji Century ^Roundels, 

242. 12. His name crowned once, etc. Michel- 
angelo. 

243. Hon AND FkAi. Tristram of Lyonesse and Other Poems. 

244. *<NoN DoLBT.** Songs before Sunrise. Pctus Csecina,. 
ordered by the Emperor Claudius to put an end to hn Ufe, hesitated 
to strike the suicidal Mow, whereupon his wife Arria took the dag- 
ger, plunged it into her own breast, then handed it to him, saying : 
Psete, non dolet ( Paetus, it does not hurt) . See Pliny, Letter 3 1 6, 6. 

244. PxLAGius. A Midsummer Holiday and Other Poems, 
Pelagjus was a Celtic theolog^ of the fifUi century, who opposed 
the doctrine of original un, and was formally condeinned as a heretic 
by a council of bishops held in Carthage. 

247. Thc Dbscknt Into Hsll. Songs of Two Nations, 
Dira, xri. Dated Jan. 9, 1 8 73. These sonnets commemorate the 
death of Louu Napoleon. 

248. Th« MoDKtATM. Songs of Tvfo Nations, Dira, xi. 
Dated Februaxy, 1870. The Latin motto is from Pernus, 3, 38. 



0OttS 373 

•'They beheld virtue, and fumking her, wkhered away.** This 
thcnight k reproduced in the latt line of the soniiet. The Moderates 
were the conienratiTet in Italian politict, who, after the death of 
Cavour in 1 86i, looked to Louis Napoleon as Itafy*s best friend, and 
opposed the revdudonary activities of Oaribaldi. 

249* Thi BuKDgM or AnsraiA. Sotigt of Two Nstiont. Dira^ 
▼. Dated 1866. 

249, 21. Is it not thou that now art but a name ? 
*< A geographical expression ** was Mettemich*s sneering designation 
of Italy. 

250. Apologia. Songs of Two Nations, Dira, xxii. The 
dovng sonnet in thn series of inyecdves. 

250. On thi Russian Pxbsicution op thi Jxws. Tristram 
of Lyoness* and Other Poems, Dated Jan. 23, 1882. 

251. Dysthanatos. Tristram of Lyonesse and Other Poems, 
Dat^ March 14, 1881. Dysdianatos means unpleasant death, as 
opposed to euthanasia, or pleasant death. The Latin motto means : 
Few kings go down to the son-in-law of Ceres without violence and 
wounds, or tyrants by a dry death. Jinrenal, x. 111-12. Words- 
worth in the sonnet, Look now on tkat adventurer who hath feddy 
ujt o£ Uaifoicon i 

*< And, if old judgments keep their sacred course. 
Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate 
By violent and ignominious death.** 

252. Caknot. a Channel Passage and Other Poems, Dated 
June 25, 1894. Marie-Franfois Sadi-Camot, President of the 
French Republic, was assassinated by an anarchist June 24, 

1894. 

253. Vos Dios Lavdamus. A Midsummer Holiday and Other 
Pdems, These sonnets were occasioned by the discussion that took 
place in the English press over the acceptance of a peerage by Alfred 
Tennyson. 

255, 9. Such hands as wove, etc. Sophocles, (Edipus 
at Co/onus, 

255. In San Loanrzo. Songs before Sunriu, The sacristy of 
the church of San Lcnenzp, in Florence, was built by Michel- 
angelo, and contains his famous figures of Day and Night. The poet 



374 ^fimxfi 

Strofsiy a contanponiy of die tcolpCor, inacribed the itatne of 

Night with the fbUowing Tenet : 

« La Notte, che to redi m d doki atti 
Dormire, ib da un Angelo tcolpita 
In quettD ano, e perch^ dorme ha vita ; 
DeMda, te no *1 credi, e parleratd,** 

(Night, whom thou behddett thus loftly slumbering, was by an 
Angel sculptured in this stone, and because she sleeps is aUve ; 
awaken her, if thou doubtest, and she will speak to thee. ^ Where- 
upon Michelangelo replied, having refe r en ce to the evil days of 
^rranny and injusdce up<m which he had faSkn. : 

« Onto m* h *1 sonno, e piu 1* esser di sasso, 
Mentre che *1 danno e la vergogna dura : 
Non veder, non sentir, m* ^ gran ventura ; 
Per6 non mi destar ; deh 1 parla basso ! ** 

(Grateful to me is sleep, and still more to be of stone, while 
evil and shame endure : neither to see nor to hear b to me great 
good fortune ; therefore do not awaken me ; ah ! speak low !) In 
this sonnet, Swinburne compares the condition oi Italy in Michel- 
angelo's time with her condition under the Papal and Austrian 
tyrannv of the middle nineteenth century. 

350. The Festival or Bbateicx. Astrophel and Other Poems, 
Dante*s Beatrice died June 8, 1290. This sonnet celebrates the six 
hundredth anniversary of her deadi. 

356. 12. Behold we well, etc. Purgatorioy xzx. 73. 

357. Cmeistophxk Maklowb. Tristram of Lyonesu and 
Other Poems. 

^57> 15* If aU the pens, etc. Marlowe, Tamhurlaime the 
Great f Part the First, v. i. 

358. William Shakispbarx. Tristram of Lyenesse and Other 
Poems, 

358. John Wxbstxk. Tristram of Lyonesse and Other Poems. 
This and the two preceding sonnets are from a series of twenty-one 
Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets (ljgo-l6jo) f supplemented 
by one on Cyril Toumeur in Poems and Ballads, n., and hy the 
series of Prologues which close A Chanrnl Pass^ and Other 
Poems. 



iPM» ^ 375 

359. Cob Cobdivm. Sot^t before Sunrise, Theie are the words 
upon SheUe]r*s tombttone in die Protettant Cemetery at Rome. 
a6o. DicKXNt. Tristram of Lyvneue mnd Other Poems, 

261. On thb Dkaths or Thomai Cablyu and Gsokgb 
EuoT. Tristram of Dfonesse and Otker Poems. Both these 
wrkeis died in 1881. 

262. On thb Dbath op Robbbt Bbowning. Astrophel and 
Other Poems. The last of a sequence of seven sonnets, dated Dec. 
13-15, 1889. 

263. Tmalassivs. Songs of the Springtides. This poem is a 
highly symb(^cal spiritual autobiognq^hy, and hence of great ngni- 
ficance for the study of Swinburne. 

264. 3. Cyinothoe. One of the Nereids. 

264, 22. But he that found, etc. Walter Savage Landor. 
267, 4. And gladly should man die to eain, etc. 

TlieK two lines freely trandate Landor*s inscription for the Spanish 
patriots who gave their lives in defending their countiy against the 
Napoleonic invasion. The inscription is as follows : 

Emeriti . lubenter . quiescerimus. 

Libertate . parts. 
Quiescimus . amissa . perlubenter. 

A more literal translation occurs in Swinbume*s Song for the 
Centenary of Walter Savage Landor. 

Gladly we should rest ever, had we won 
Freedom : we have lost, and very gladly rest. 

It is interesting to compare with this the version by Sir Henry 
Tsybr, in St. Clements Eve. 

And say I gladly would have lived to serve her, 
Wherein defeated, I as gladly die. 

279, 7. The furred Bassarides. See Note zx6, 6. 

280. 23. Eri|^one. The daughter of Icarius, ending her 
fife through grief at her father's murder, and set by Zeus among the 
stuB as ^e constellation Virgo. This stoiy u closely connected 
with the legend of the coming of Dionysus to Attica. 

283, 2. Wild mares in Thessaly. For this legend tee 
Iliadf 20, 223, and Georgics, 3, 275. 



37^ i^otr« 

mS$, AoBint a Maub Stoabt. TritiramtflymttumtdOtker 
Ptwu, 
385, 7. Queen, for whose honte my fathers fong^t. 

A rerefcncc to nic poet s jicooite ancMtiy. 

390, 6. The song . . . that took ^ur praise up 

twenty years aro. The three pans of Swmbunie't drtmatic 
trilogy were pnbliihed in 1865, 1874, and 1881, reipectiTdj. 

3^. On a Coontkt Road. A Midmmmir HoIiiUy and Otkgr 
Poems. This is Section m. of ^ Mtdtummer HoBtUy, 

393. In thi Bay. Poms and BalUds^ n. 

394, 17. Son of the songs of morning. Christopher 
Marlowe. 

397, 3. Like spray these wsTes cast off her foe- 
men's fleet. The defeat of the Spanish Aimada. 

399» 5. He that rose our mightiest. Shakespeare. 

399, 18. The twin-sonled brethren, etc. Beaumoot 
and Fletcher. 

300, 3. That flzed ferronr, etc. John Ford. 
300, 15. You twain the same swift year. Marlowe 
and Shelley died in their thirtieth year. 

305. In Mimost op Waltss Say age Landos. Poems and 
Ballads^ I. Landor died in Florence Sept. 17, 1864, a few 
months before the prorirional establishment in that ci^ of the 
capital of United Ita^. 

306. 9. I came as one, etc. Swinburne went to Italy in 
1864, and paid a ririt to Landor, brining a letter of introduction 
from R. M. Milnes. 

307. To VicToa Hugo. Poems and Ballads^ i. This is the 
first of Swinbume*s many tributes to the great French poet His 
more elaborate Birthday Ode (1880), in the Pindaric form, with 
the series of strophe, antistrophe, and epode thirteen times repeated, 
occurs in Songs of the Springtides, The Statue of Victor Hngo, in 
Tristram of Lyonesse and Other Poemsy is almost equally noteworthy. 

31 z, 3. Help to my sires and home. An all&sionto 
Swinbume*s ancestors, ezileid by their devotion to the Stuart cause. 

3x4, 3. Still shows him exile, etc. This poem was 
written when Hugo was firing, a yoluntaiy exile, in Guernsey. 

3x6. Ayi At<^ux Vau. Poems and Ballads^ n. The Tenes 



iprttetf 377 

from Baudelaire may be translated as follovrs : ** Yet should we 
bear him a few flowers ; the dead, the unhappy dead, have great 
sorrows, and when October, pruner of ancient trees, breathes its 
melancholy winds about their tombs, assuredly, the living must 
seem to them very ingrates.** 

3Z7» 1-3- Lesbian promontories . . . Leucadian 
g^ave. Sappho, bom in the isle of Lesbos, was reputed to have 
cast herself into the sea from the rock of Leucas. 

3x9, 6. Some pale Titan-woman, etc. See Baudelaire, 
Zja Geante. 

322. And lay, Orestes-like, etc. See i£scbylus, Choe- 

phoraty 4-8. 

322, 15. Him, the King. Agamemnon. 

324, II. That obscure Venus of the hollow hill. 

The Venus of clasdcal mythology, transformed into an e^l spirit by 
the medieval religious imagination, was supposed to hold her court 
in the recesses of the Venusberg or Horselberg, in Thurin^ (Cen- 
tral Germany). This b made familiar by the Tannhauser legend. 

324, 14. Erycine. From Eryx, in Sicily, the seat of a 
temple to Aphrodite Urania ; that is, to Aphrodite as the goddess 
of the higher and purer love. 

325, I. And now no sacred staff, etc. An allusion to 
the Tannliauser legend. The knight, escaping from the snare of 
Lady Venus, makes a pilgiimage to Rome, to implore pardon for 
his sins. Cursed by the Pope, he is told that it is no more possible he 
should be forgiven than that the dry staff in the hand of God's 
vicegerent should break finth into fresh flower. After his de- 
parture, this miracle occurs, and messengers are despatched to find 
him, bearing with them the blossoming staff. See Swinburne, 
Lmui Veneris. 

326, Lines on the Monument or Giuseppe Maszini. A 
Midsummer Holiday and Other Poems, This monument is in the 
Campo Santo of Genoa, just outside the city. 

329. The Death op Richard Wagner. A Century of 
Roundels. Wagner died in Venice, Feb. 13, 1883. 

331. Dedication. Poems and Ballads, i. "To my friend 
Edward Bume-Jones, these poems are afiiectionately and admiringly 
Inscribed." 



378 fiiaui 

335. Dedication. Poewu and Ballads^ 11. << Inscribed to 
Rkhard F. Burton, in redemptkm of an old pledge, and in recogni- 
tion of a friendship which I must always count among the highest 
honours of my life. * * 

337. HiNDBCASYLLABics. Pocms ottd Bo/Iads, I. It is in- 
teresting to compare Tennyson*s study in the same metre. 

345* GnAND Chokus or BiKOs PKOM Akistophanks. Studies 
in Song. * * I was allured into the audacity of this experiment by con- 
nderation of a fiict which hitherto does not seem to have been taken 
into consideration by any translator of the half divine humourist in 
whose incomparable genius the highest qualities of Rabehus were fused 
and harmonized with the sui^'emest gifb of Shelley : namely that 
his marvellous metrical invention of the anapsesric heptameter was 
almost exactly reproducible in a language to which all variations 
and combinations of anapaestic, iambic, or trochaic metre are as 
natural and pliable as all dactylic and spondaic forms of verse are 
unnatural and abhorrent. As it happens, this highest central inter- 
lude of a most adorable masterpiece is as easy to detach from its 
dramatic setting, and even from its lyrical context, as it was easy to 
give line for line of it in English. In two metrical p<»nt8 only 
does my verrion vary from the verbal pattern of the ori^nal. 
I have of course added rhymes, and doi^le rhymes, as necessary 
makeweights for the imperfection of an otherwise inadequate lan- 
guage ; and equally of course I have not attempted the impossible 
and undesirable task of reproducing the rare exceptional efiect of a 
line overcharged on purpose with a jM-eponderance of heavy-footed 
spondees : and this for the (^vious reason that even if such a line 
— which I doubt — could be exactly represented, foot by foot 
and pause for paiise, in English, this English line would no more be 
a verse in any proper sense of the word than is the line I am writ- 
ing at this moment. And my main intention, or at least my main 
deure, in the undertaking of this brief adventure was to renew as 
^r as possible for En^h ears the music of this resonant and 
triumphant metre, which goes ringing at full gallop as of horses who 

* dance as *twere to the music 
Their own hoofs make. * 

I would not seem over-curious in search of an apt or an inapt 



iErttW 379 

quotadon ; but nothing can be fitter than a verse of Shakespeare's 
to praise at once and to describe the most typical verse of Aristo- 
phanes.** Swinburne. 

345 > ^' Prodicus. A Greek sophist, contemporary with 
Socrates. 

347, 6. Orestes the thief. A notorious footpad of 

Athens, perhaps thus nicknamed because he feigned madness. 
348* A jACOBm*8 Farxwbll. Poems and Ballads^ in. 

348, 5. Tyne. To lose. 

349, A Jacobitb*s Exils. Poemx and BaJIads, ni. 

349, 20. On dark Dnimossie's day. Drumo«ie 
Moor is another name for Culloden, where the Young Pretender 
met his final defeat, April 16, 1746. 

351, 3. A weird for dreeing. A fete to be endured. 

351, 9. Thole. To bear. 

353. Thb Highbk Panthiism in a NuTSHiLL. TJU HeptO' 
Icgia. A parody upon Tennyson* s The Higher Pantheism. 

355* SoNNBT roK A PicTURi. The Heptalogia, A parody 
upon Rossetti. This is a composite of suggestions rather than an 
imitation of any particular sonnet. 

356. NiPHSUDiA. The Heptalogia. The tide may be trans- 
lated as ** Cloudlets.** Few poets have been parodied as extensively 
as Swinburne, but no one else has been quite as successful as Swin- 
burne himself, in the present attempt, to mock at his own manner- 
isms of diction and rhythmical effect.