THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES SONGS AND MEDITATIONS SONGS AND MEDITATIONS BY MAURICE HEWLETT ' Di rime sparse il suono ' WESTMINSTER ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND CO. 1896 Edinburgh : T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty Library TO MY MOTHER PREFATORY NOTE OF the poems in this book, those printed on pages 32, 65, 116, have appeared in the Academy, that on page 21 in the Pall Mall Gazette. I am indebted to the Editors of these journals for permission to reprint them here. None of the others have been published, so far as I remember. LONDON, October 1896. CONTENTS SONGS PAGE A Hymn to Artemis .... 3 Ode to the Dawn of Italy ... 9 The Cretan Ode . . . .14 War-Songs for the English . . .21 Divae Genetricis Laudes . . .32 Daughter of Earth . . . .35 Processional ..... 40 Canzone of Hymnia's Coronation . . 46 For Cecco sleepy . . . .50 White Flowers ..... 52 To Crocuses . . . . .54 Song : Ask me not . . . .58 CONTENTS PAGE Song : O passion of the Heart . . .60 Nessun maggior dolore . . . .62 Dirge ...... 64 For the dead Lorenzo . . . .65 The Spring Coppice .... 68 Stornelli ..... 71 Iseult of the Mill . . . .73 Ariadne Forsaken . . . .75 MEDITATIONS Flos Virginum ... .83 Preparation ..... 88 * Donna e gentil . . . .91 Rosa Nascosa . . . 94 Artemision . . . 96 Saint Beauty . . . . .98 Eros-Narcissus . 100 CONTENTS PAGE That Stone Walls can never separate him from his Lady ... . 102 His Lady a Thief . .104 Having lost his Lady .... 106 Prometheus ..... 108 Song and Art ..... Ill Shakespeare in Church .... 114 Gulls on the Thames . . . .116 Ballad of Clytie . . . .118 LaPia . . . . . .125 The Saints' Maying .... 130 SONGS A HYMN TO ARTEMIS QUEEN of the upper air, crown'd Artemis ! Quick-girdled huntress and moon-diadem' d, O patroness of all our keen endeavour, Lady that life from life dost sever, Hear thou from haunt Euboean ! Life out of life, seed unto seed thou givest, Thou potent in the Stygian shades infernal As in the blue supernal ; Potent thou too in the green habitations Of teeming Earth, whose nations Adore in thee their holiest aspirations, SONGS See their wholesome, see their pure Stroke and striving imaged sure In thine implacable, chaste, thy virgin medi- tations. Thee crocus-vested Caryatides Intone with long-drawn paean ; To thee the parsley crown, the pure libation, The youngling hind, we offer up, so soon Within her sapphire cave the moon Swingeth her frosted lamp, and silver stars their station About her take, and beacon over seas : To thee come languid mothers, children at their knees, Thee virgins not yet wedded Seek first and offer up the tress new-shredded, And snowy maiden smock ; A HYMN TO ARTEMIS To thee, as to a rock Of succour in wild seas, the girdle ivory-headed That guards the blossom of breasts by men unheeded. When Delos, driven out by stress of weather. Had roam'd the vasty sea a restless course Vexed, so soon that Leto's aching feet Were cooled, her nine days' anguish ended ; In that great peace that followed Came order out of chaos, the Sun threw out, And in the windless caverns of night Sail'd serene the silver Moon. Thereon, because a calm miraculous Follow'd the great twin birth of light and light, God said, ' Delos the chosen is and shall be ; Star-ray for all this blind and groping Earth.' SONGS Dreadful thou art and sudden ! Madness is thine and horror unavailing, The woe of women wailing (Niobe wailing for her sons and daughters), And shriek of starven madness : Anon the swiftsure of death, the closing of waters Dark, slippery, swift, pathless, untrod Reeling over our heads, swaying our hair Suckt like weed : bubbles of air Mark for a moment the place where the wretch of despair Sank at thy stare. Thou to be sought in dewy Arcadian haunts, Soothest, chastest and cleanest ! Where broodeth the dove, where the wood pecker chants A HYMN TO ARTEMIS His mocking refrain. Sacred to thee are birds of the air, and all cattle, The mountain track, the glade where in battle, Clashing their antler' d heads, stags beat amain Earth for the herd's dominion : Thee glorify the hawks, each strain of the pinion Is as a hymn of thy praise, swifter than sight ! For in thee the gladness of strength, and beauty of strength, In thee the clearness of light and throbbing of light, Have all their crown, O deathless Queen of the night, Amarynthinian ! All that is gracious and suave in a maid, All fearless and flawless in chastely carved lips, All that is proud in her eyes, intent, unafraid, SONGS What there may be in the touch of her finger- tips ; The reticence of her and modesty, keeping apart, The joyance of swift light motion, throat to the day; All the glowing abandon that beats in her heart, All the love she knoweth but shunneth to say : The rapture of living, love's growing, the babe That seeketh the breast They are thine, Lady, that figurest all, having all That is pure at thy hest ! ODE TO THE DAWN OF ITALY (PARABASIS FROM A PLAY) As to a mountain holy Peakt in a haze of live blue trembling air, Anointed by the glory of the Sun, So faltering as a pilgrim, faint and slowly I lift up wearied eyes To this vague land that lies As a tired queen ere her long day begun, Breasting the Southern glamour, and slaves the North To fan the tresses of her heavy hair, And with her stretched palms draws East and West in one. SONGS O still I hail thee, since most fair art thou, Lady of smooth broad brow And healing touch ! Thou that abidest where the Adrian brims, And where spreads reedy silver Thrasymene One sheeted broad demesne ; Or in dark Tyrrhene seas where daylight dims, And men, fainting through much Toil, seek with their blind hands To bind about their brows thy hair in thick wet bands. For rest is in thine eyes, And full of rest thy voice Calling among the water-brooks of easeful things; Sweet-cool the winnowings, And full of solace when the sun-glare dies The play of thy great wings 10 ODE TO THE DAWN OF ITALY Across the thick of evening dusk with hidden noise. So on the breast of Night, Beneath thy serious eyes. Wrapt in the silver light About thy head that lies, Lull'd by the mysteries And soft low breathings of thy deep delight, Let me faint out of strife where Sleep is Death's surmise. Awake, O thou most holy, O Bride desirable of all the Earth ! Lift up thy languid head, the languid lids Droopt on thy solemn eyes, the moment bids We front the world with mirth. Awake the tired, the lowly Raise thou ! Lo, priest-like Dawn II SONGS Stoled all in swathes of lawn And shrouded gossamer : lo ! he will hymn the morn. I sing thine eager rising With music on thy lips, With fresh dew in thy hair And on the rosy tips Of thy quick fingers prayer Like balm to anoint our faint souls agonising : I see the Bridegroom issue, I see the dead wake up And all wan faces quiver, As in a rain-fed river The stream out-brims the cup ; Then, veil'd in golden tissue, Phoebus the chant take up ! 12 ODE TO THE DAWN OF ITALY Surely now, surely succour cometh in, Surely is paid the sin, And past the burthen of night ! For here in cooler air The autumn day smiles meekly, a kinder death Than thr eaten' d us beneath The restless crave and hunger of the sea ! Behold ! our lord the Sun, Apollo's panoplied arm, Streameth out of the gates And fireth the ways of dawn, And kindleth the scars of the hill-tops one after one With the flush of Heaven's quick fire : Even so is my own desire Litten, and hope leapeth higher and higher : Lift up your voice to the Queen in her bride's attire ! 13 THE CRETAN ODE (PARABASIS FROM A PLAY) FIRST I salute you, guardian hills of Crete, With careful brows and hands uplifted high Dicte, where in cold splendours of the moon The lonely Goddess dwells, from whose bare crag Maid Britomartis, virgin shy and pure, Cast all her delicate treasure to the sea And by death saved her life ; next, Ida, thee, Veil'd in thine immemorial cypress robes, Dark with the murmurs of perpetual peace, Ida, whose haunts Zeus knew, and loveth still. And also you, O holiest sentinels About Cydonia ramparting the sea ! THE CRETAN ODE Sisters, who linkt in ice With glittering crowns a-row, Watch over Crete while night pursueth day, And fiercer than day's light Dazzle all eyes that dare affront your beams. O ye dread haunts of God, by man untrodden, Only by man adored from very far ! By that great strength ye are, Holding a steadfast way Through good and ill report, Through tempest and dismay, Through blinding snow and frost ; Ye only that abide Where all is chance and change, for no man liveth Who knew or heard his fathers tell that day When ye were not inflexible as now ! Listen, each haunted place, Ye hills, each crown' d with God, SONGS Listen, most evil case Is on us, our feet have trod The splintry steep that leadeth men astray By pain from Heaven's clear way : We have slipt in our own blood, And each new morn hath summon' d wearier day. Wherefore, seeing to no man it is given To read the will of Heaven ; Seeing the blessed Gods remotely reign, Not pitying our pain, Nor stooping down at all, rather pursuing Their sport in our undoing ; It doth become that man whose love is law To clothe himself with awe, And gazing on your strength win strength to abide What fortune may betide. 16 THE CRETAN ODE Yet, O ye patron Gods, who watch our going, Withal unfathomable and unseen, Withal aloof and ruthless, no man liveth To dare against ye any rite undone ; Nor can remove his eyes From your reflected state, Knowing how excellently great Ye are, how beauteous, swift, supremely wise, Nor stay to seek (since without beauty dies Man's better part) uncheckt that thing he flies! Therefore to you, swift pair, Whom patient Leto bore your Father Zeus In Delos mid the folded Cyclades, To thee, O Archer- Phoebus, to whom the Sun Is but a mantle flaming at the edge ; Thee, Hymnia, stripling huntress of the air, SONGS To whom soothsay pertains And keener shafts than ever arrow shot Lo now, in perilous pass I bring you my despair. Eileithyia, thee next I invoke, As women when the stroke Of their most heavy pains Falleth, and new life strains, And their fray'd life to meet it maketh stress, Yet often fainteth out through feebleness ! O who with bent down head Dost hang above the bed, And with thy torch's light Direct the new-born sight Unto thy holy face, That its first view be grace ! Be merciful ere all our land Faileth, bid stay the hand 18 THE CRETAN ODE Red to the wrist with carnage, that it cease And the end be peace ! And them, demesned in Crete, O Queen Demeter, watchful over wheat ! And lonely Mother long inured to pain ; If now a little thought of our fair fields Linger in thee who blest them once, What time by Ida's valleys thou wert glad When the green corn peer'd out Glimmering upon the brown and dusty earth : So do thou turn thine eyes, If not remote in grief, If not preoccupied By thine absorbing ever-pressing lack, Lest all indeed should die as some have died! SONGS Haply the Gods may hear, for Crete is shrill, Being wounded ; they may pity, for Crete is fair For all her peakt complaining, as a maid Stolen for some lord's pleasure waxeth frail, And in her frailty more desirable. But an they choose not, I as one grown old, Hardened to storm and cold, Will set my face as yours to fires and chills, O immemorial Hills ! 20 WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH I. SENNET ENGLAND, my country, my pride, Mother and Queen, I the weak In all else but my praise, To thee, Mother, I speak. If the World, hungry-eyed, Carp at thy glory, or raise Outcry, or, tongue in the cheek, Scoff thee, seek to deride Thine onset too great and too wide For envy to hinder or check Think, O Mother, thy bays Our blood hath water' d, thy side Is girt with our sword ; our days Are thy days : be not denied. 21 SONGS % While England stands in the sea The sea is hers ; where the wind Bloweth from England, her grace Spreadeth her seignory. From pole to pole is her fee, She knoweth not strength to bind, To slow or stay her; her face Setteth out : but behind The grieving horde snappeth free And snarleth a sour grimace, And thinketh our England blind When she letteth them be, And holdeth her ancient place. But an the outcry swelleth Too angry or vext in her ear, Or one perchance of the rout Poketh his searching snout 22 WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH To coign of earth wherein dwelleth One of her cubs ; should she hear The clash of arms, or the shout Of battle ring ; if she smelleth The blood and smoke without fear, Without haste, with most sober cheer She maketh ready : no flout Stayeth her to come out There where the trumpet foretelleth Battle of peer with peer. When she loost from her lair, The grey she-lion, she stood Proud and shaking, and lo ! Her lips curl'd back, her teeth bare, Hinted the surge of her mood. In her fierce eyes the blank glare Of a light recess' d and aglow SONGS Dared her to be withstood. So in old days of her blood, So when her pride in flood Leapt, she remember'd her blow Of Grenville and Churchill and Hood. So she remembers now. And England struck, and her stroke Was heavy, and all men's breath Stay'd to see her, and hail'd England armour'd in oak. Oak without, but beneath Surged and pulsed, facing Death, The heart that never yet fail'd, The red that never yet paled, The tongue that never shame spoke. Sons ! now heed her, she saith ' O Sons, I am slow to provoke, 24 WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH Slow to wrath ; I have quail'd Only to sin. Now my teeth Are set. What is mine, be it held.' Seed of England, O seed Of the pack that hunted Poictiers, Your fathers saw Nelson bleed In Victory's hour, on her deck ; And their fathers heard with glad ears The song of the Wolfe of Quebec ! Shall ye now, in the need Of our Mother, hold you in check ? Shall ye sit and babble of fears ? Ye will not ! The sword is freed, The flag floateth, and quick Shrilleth the cry ' Ho ! take heed : Heed what ye speak : England hears.' SONGS II. RALLY To ye, whose tongue is our Shakespeare's, I speak : England hath need of her men Sons of the ancient East, ye of the ardent West, Ye of the sword, of the pen ; All who confess England Mother, who suckt At her mighty breast, Who drank of her milk, who bear on their brows the mark Of her vigilant crest. Rise now, Australia, Canada ! rise India, Africa ! Speakers of English speech, servants of English Gods, Rise, it is war ! it is war ! 26 WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH England has never bow'd, England is quiet and proud, Her children are free In all save this, to rally to England's nod For her dignity. Brothers, the fates are fixt, nothing can stay England's decree : ' This much is mine to possess it ; I must be queen Over land and sea/ Choose, choose, O English, follow the Fates Whither they lead, Or sink back to the ruck, to the trough of the coward : Choose ye with speed ! And to ye, once rebel, still kindred, our England speaks, ' By your ancient fires, SONGS O by the common cradle, the larger blood Of our common sires ! The foe shrieketh, the German, the Frenchman, the Slav, Grown covetous, Murmur, mutter, bluster England alone ! Who is for us ? ' Nay, who is not for England, speaking her speech, Sharing her fame ? Will brother deliver brother to alien death, Or wink on his shame ? O ye brothers of us, ye separate sons Of England our Mother, Sons of Alfred and Edward, of Richard the Lion, Of Harry, what other Road will ye tread ? the road that even is red With the harvest of spears, 28 WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH Or the road of the base, cluster'd with Panic and Sloth And their huddle of fears ? Choose, choose, America, England awaits Her eldest-born's choice : Choose, lose no time, already the rest of us shout With one single voice England, Mother, rejoice ! For England, hemm'd by her resolute sons, setteth out, And neither her foes' nor thy choice Will hinder her path or turn her purpose about ! 29 SONGS III. CLARION WHO that hath ever heard His Mother's song hath not leapt, Or her crying and hath not stirr'd ? Who in her need hath slept, In her plenty hath not rejoiced, At thought of her shame not wept ? Voice above all we have voiced Is hers of the clarion shrill And hers of the flag we hoist : England, our Mother still, Our haven girdling in sea Woodland and grassy hill ; WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH England, born to be free As the wind that drives in her face Or the wave on weather and lee ! Let her but hint disgrace On one bearing her name, Her sons take their silent place Rankt to do out the blame, To wash the escutcheon clean, To spend blood for her fame. O English, the war-breath is keen Now : ye have understood Our mother's menace, I ween. Being of the English blood, Are ye to be withstood ? Are ye in whimpering mood ? No, by the living God ! GENETRICIS LAUDES THE streaming skies have wept our lonely death ; Straighten'd we lie and hapless wait for thee : Thou art our Mother ! warm us with thy breath ; Whether within a hollow of the sea, Or in some yet unravisht dell of cresses, Or ferny thicket where no frost may be, Thou dwellest, or where desolate cypresses Toss their black plumes about in thin blue air, And wailing seas fling high their stormy tresses ; Lo, in thy myrtle groves the doves prepare Their homesteads, and their broodful murmurs float Out to the wintry beam, and here and there GENETRICIS LAUDES The ousel thrills his mellow-chorded rote, And in broad diapason all thy choir Prelude the rapture of thy honey throat. Now in the drenched pasture spire on spire Uplifts the tender undergrowth of grasses ; Now the sun tinges blushing woods with fire Where, westering tardier, glowing he passes, As loath to miss thy coming when from over The even sea thou glidest ; white-arm'd lasses Lapful of meadow flowers stray to discover The crocus' purple chalice gemm'd with gold, And pencill'd wood-sorrel, shy April's lover, To deck thy sylvan altar. Now, behold ! The sacrifice, fruit from thine Earth's warm breast, Balm and new milk, the firstlings of the fold, 33 SONGS Rose-sharded wind-flowers, and garlands drest For festival, and glossy eggs of doves Fresh taken from the sanctuary nest. So, Aphrodite, grey-eyed queen of loves, So, Earth-begetter, full of tilth and store, Rise from the dead, nor leave us any more, Fountain and stream of everything that moves ! 34 DAUGHTER OF EARTH I WILL make an altar of earth With myrtle deckt and with yew, Covered with sods : the dew Shall wash it dainty and clean. I raise it, O Child, to you ; To the peace you have, and the mirth, To the wells of love in your eyes And the sweet tide of your breath, To your young blood ere it dries ; To Innocence, Ardour, and You. Hymnia you shall be call'd ; For worship of you the shrine Is built of pure thought, and fine 35 SONGS As the mould of your shapeliness. Let Summer breathe on it, and bees, And the wind's love ; from the vine I borrow clinging ; let Dawn Greet you thro' lattice of trees Plane, and Poplar that sighs, And Lime, the lover of bees. Smooth, rounded, and knit As the fashion of perfect limbs I would have it be : of your eyes I ask for the sanctities Of their violet glint ere it dims To kindle the fire on it. Above the green altar-ledge Still, incessant, your eyes Fire the dusk : they are lit From the love in my heart that lies. 36 DAUGHTER OF EARTH Give of your hair to hide The altar-house ; spray it wide In a silk mesh ah, my pride ! Was ever iconostase So superbly bedeckt With warm brown curtain, or fleckt As this with rays of the sun ? Or when since Mass was begun Came priest to cover his face In so burnisht curtain and wide ? Your breath is for incense-flight From the censer pure of your mouth It is odorous of the South And the pastures of all the West. The wet fresh growth of the year, Honeysuckle and thyme, Anemones meek as death, 37 SONGS Crocuses yellow and white : All shy blossoms are here Nurst in your balmy breath. For altar-stone is your lap Whereon, a pure offering, I lay down flowers, a song, A bird's dropt feather, a ring Woven of scented rush For my spousal with Earth. And I crush From mallows the milky sap, Flour from the burnt brown wheat, And from limes the honey, to make For the altar a fairy cake. Kneeling I lift eyes up The ripple of you, and see As a bud stiff on her stalk Your face in whose beam I walk DAUGHTER OF EARTH Lift from your gown's dark cup, And your grave eyes fixt on me. Then I fall, bending the knee, For your mouth quivers, a tear Veils your seeing : I know Your heart's grief, O my dear ! Heaven kiss'd Earth and loved her Face to face in the wild Still deeps of a night Once in June. O Child, Thou, pledge of delight, Thou wert born of that night, Spirit of Earth, the joy Of whoso loveth cool rain, And summer heats, and the pain Of frosts, and spring's onset mild : Thou art Earth's quick-born child ! 39 PROCESSIONAL THIS is the holy day of half the year ; To Hymnia's pageant come, for it is here. First, with shrill summons of the double reed Let the flute-player bid the folk take heed. Stand on one side, or follow in the throng That like a dancing water laughs along, Headed by maidens, tall and slim as wands, With budded wreaths and sisterly linkt hands. After them lads, clean in new snowy smocks, Come, leading by the firstlings of their flocks ; 4 PROCESSIONAL And children let from school, in loose array, Bare-legg'd, bare-arm'd, head-bare, busy with play. Their wagging tongues make such a merry din The piper's winding tune sounds far and thin. Next girls, with viol tuckt against the cheek, Trailing their long robes, bend like lilies meek ; Even as the bow, drawn out by their lithe fingers, Wounds slowly, so their passionate music lingers : Till to a master-call awakes the morn, And beasts leave graze to wonder at the horn. The trumpeters in Lincoln green and tan, Lusty as noon, make music while they can ; SONGS For homage is best done by man to maid With plough and sheep-hook, reaping-hook and spade : Only in May-time Rob, lagging with Prue, Can belt her with his arm the whole day through, And music only then her voice uprears To honour him who sings and her who hears. Now bend all knees, and off go every cap ; Cast now, ye maids, the flowers from your lap ! Under a canopy of pink dog-rose Young Hymnia a virgin-goddess goes. In what sweet guise she cometh is well seen, Close-robed in a thin garment, white and green ; 42 PROCESSIONAL Long-throated, something tall, and sober-eyed, With parted lips she takes the morning's pride. And she is crown'd with wood-buds and young grass, And balmy-breath' d as any country lass. But for her gesture free and queenly mild You had thought her a wood-girl, caged but wild. No one is she of that brood unconfined, A lonely presence without peer or kind. But as the breathless glory when day breaks Holds men, so all men's longing Hymnia takes. So shy withal is she, and burning-pure, Few find her, and few dare that only sure 43 SONGS Footway that leads through thicket, holt, and brake To Hymnia's altar by the forest lake. But they that toil, and carry in their hands Clear offering, may see her where she stands Recluse as violets, with dewy eyes And bashful welcome and shy glad surprise, At this, the time she best loves, when the earth Quickens and throbs to put off winter dearth. Through windy valleys now, like driven flame, See her host flutter, calling her by name : ' Hymnia, ah, Hymnia, thou pure Maid, Come, for the earth is green, be not afraid ! ' 44 PROCESSIONAL Then she, demurely stoled in thoughtful youth, Leadeth her homely pageant to the South ; And after her this bridal company Of youths and virgins suddenly let free, Kissed on to frolic by the ardent wind, Yet keeping innocence and honest mind. For Hymnia's priest and priestess shall not fire With any love but love of her desire ; And her desire being all for wholesomeness, Desire in them is rein'd by her duress. Now go ye to your homes, the rites are done ; And going, pray speed on the year begun. 45 CANZONE OF HYMNIA'S CORONATION Bind for her head a crown of crocuses, And since she is more fair Than they 'twill win them honour If they may cluster there, Catching light from the glory of her hair, As she goes coronall'd with crocuses Set like a wreath upon her. So soon the new-litten Sun Beameth his golden eye upon the day, And in the grass new breath doth stir, O come, apparel her In colours fresh as ever rainbow spun ; Let us rejoice in her whenas we may. 46 CANZONE OF HYMNIA'S CORONATION Bind for her head a crown of crocuses Of white and mauve and yellow, To kindle on her brows, And grow demure and mellow From being linkt to such a grave yokefellow : Loveliness shines in maids and crocuses The fairer for their snows. And now smooth-vestured for delight In a clear gown of blue and silver white, She steppeth forth to the green And pleasant fields ; unto her lovely face The light doth look for food, That thereon supping he may borrow grace And for her sake live clean To be a sweet shrine for such maidenhood. Bind for her head a crown of crocuses Or e'er the bride be married SONGS And stolen from her home : Too long the bride hath tarried, Across the threshold she must soon be carried. Brides should be clothed like the March crocuses, Soon made ready to come. What bridal for what bride Than Sun and open weather Could be fitter her pride Whom no man's yoke could tether ? You shall but see together Her and the South-west wind, But you shall know her mind In no man's love to bide. Bind for her head a crown of crocuses, And for her vest, More fairy white than snow on upland wolds, A posy ofthejlowers she loveth best, 48 CANZONE OF HYMNIA'S CORONATION Stuck with marsh marigolds And shy primroses and pale lady-smock, Anemones that flock In woody hollows where the dormice nest. So in hedge-flowers and young crocuses Let bosom and brows go drest. D 49 FOR CECCO SLEEPY CECCO'S eyes begin to blink, Lay him down, lay him down ! Tired little head must sink, Little golden crown. Cecco plays the valiant part All the day, all the day ! That 's an eager little heart Tired out with play. Sleep groweth masterful, Come to bed, come to bed ! Pillow deep in fleecy wool Cecco's nodding head. 50 FOR CECCO SLEEPY Glozed water, moon-dipt skies, Vague and deep, vague and deep ! That 's the hue of Cecco's eyes Gossamer'd with sleep. Eyelids flutter softly o'er, Snowy soft, snowy soft ! Kiss as lightly, sing no more ; Folded is the croft. Sigh of sea-breeze from the South, So, 'tis come ! So, 'tis come ! Kiss his lids, from rosy mouth Draw a rosy thumb. An some angel passing by Stoop to bless, stoop to bless ! Know, that little whisper' d sigh Is for happiness ! WHITE FLOWERS WHITE flowers, white flowers to deck my lady fair! Clematis for her hair, A cluster of vale lilies for her bosom With apple blossom ; Then out of open fields and grassy places Pick her moon-daisies, And make a wreath With columbines and roses white as death : Thus she will be Smother'd in flower-foam, and live fragrantly. Heap up a bank of white flowers for her feet ; Bring meadow-sweet, Bring her azaleas finer than spun silk, Tuberose like frozen milk, WHITE FLOWERS And bloodless peonies, fresh-gather' d pinks ; Search on the brinks Of rivers the great water-lily globe Freed from its dark green robe : Thus when my lady tireth she may tread A bridal way to bed. Bring flawless flowers, And those that are more delicate than ours ; Love's votarist, Shade her with lilies of the Eucharist About her head ; Let myrtle and jasmine curtain up her bed, Whose lingering scent Shall lend her dreams perpetual ravishment : Now, being kiss'd, One crimson rose shall witness near her breast. 53 TO CROCUSES I ASK you not, frail crocuses, that set Light wings and thin Alert to air still sharp with winter fret, Bestow your innocence for coronet Of me, stuck deep in sin ; Yet suffer me to win So much of outlook sober and demure As yours, and pure, That with your flush my spring-time may begin. Whether upon the grass kirtled in white (Snow drifted thither), Or one by one, yet lingering and slight, Your little fires broider a linked light, 54 TO CROCUSES And beacon in black weather The way for men, or whether, More violet than heart of amethyst, You kneel at rest In folded peace, as nuns that pray together ; Let my upspringing be as glacial-clean, And let me stand Rejoicing in the sun-washt deep demesne With you and all young flowers fresh and keen As new rain on the land ; With you to lift up hand Shrilling my orison at break of day, Then bowing, say ' We come and go, live, die, at God's command. Yours are mute raptures, silent ecstasies, The secret song 55 SONGS Of carven angel-brood whose litanies Peal from wide-open eyes, and like lilies Are blown in a throng By hidden wind and strong About the fenced garden, where the Maid And Mother, having laid To sleep her firstling, crooneth all day long. O glad your coming, and your service glad, Sweet-breathed things ; You look not to the prison once you had, Take no thought wherewithal you shall be clad; You have no sorrowings, Nor rankle of coward-stings ; But spearing ever upwards in your flight You strain to light, Then listen clear-eyed till the chant begins. TO CROCUSES If there is any music left in us, Or any mirth Whose song may well from hearts made bounteous As flows your still delight when, emulous, Spring leaps from Winter's dearth, Let such an equal worth Of quiet-hued deliciousness be ours That with your patient flowers We fold on singing-robes to praise this goodly earth. 57 SONG ASK me not how much I love you ; Be content ! If too much love were sin You would but win Some of my punishment. Ask me not, but believe I merely love you. If indeed I truly love you, Never more Will any harm come near, Nor need you fear My heart's voice at the door Of your heart, whisp'ring, Open, sweet, I love you. SONG See ! I cannot choose but love you Soberly. For, having felt your touch, My pride in such Familiarity Warns me how he must worship who would love you. 59 SONG O PASSION of the heart ! In whatso hidden chamber thou abidest, Whereout on fire thou glidest To film a glory round about our state ; 'Tis thy blood quickeneth Our life that is thy death, O heart most passionate ! Thine was that passioning heart Of Italy, the blood That fed her ; thine the art, O Poet ! hers the flood Of poisonous pride to spurn thee from her gate Thee ! that had crown'd her mistress of her fate. 60 SONG O passion of the heart ! The burning heart of Dante, wing'd for serving, Clove out a way unswerving That led to deeper Hell, whence purified It sought the Holy Place, And lookt God in the face, Then came back, sanctified. High beat the stripling heart That nine-year's day the Maid, By Heaven throned apart, Her great eyes unafraid Lifted upon her guest, and that strong lover Launcht his soul God's high secret to discover. 61 NESSUN MAGG1OR DOLORE NEVER a sharper grief Than remembrance of happy things When our misery stings And wounds ache for relief; Never a wilder smart Than love disclosed too late, And the lover through the lockt gate Showeth his bleeding heart ; Never more dolorous knell Was sigh'd than Rimini's, Francesca's the bride, and his That loved too late and too well. 62 NESSUN MAGGIOR DOLORE Never in all the hours Of heart-breaking and keen Pang of loss has there been Love more fatal than ours ! DIRGE How should my lord come home to his lands ? Alas for my lord, so brown and strong ! A lean cross in his folded hands, And a daw to croak him a resting song. And in autumn tide when the leaves fall down, And wet falls as they fall, drip by drip, My lord lies wan that once was so brown, And the frost cometh to wither his lip. My lord is white as the morning mist, And his eyes ring'd like the winter moon : And I will come as soon as ye list O love, is it time ? May the time be soon ! 64 FOR THE DEAD LORENZO (FROM THE LATIN OF POLITIAN) WHO will grant to my head Water ? Or who for mine eyes Will open a fountain of tears ? So that by night I may weep, And may weep by day ; Like as the dove widow' d is wont, Or the swan that dieth is wont, Like as the nightingale ; Crying, Woe is for me ! Grief, ah, my grief ! 65 SONGS Our Tree 1 by the lightning shock Lies cast suddenly down ; Our Tree full of renown, Famed where the Muses are And famed where the wood-nymphs lie ! O Tree, whose clusterful boughs Lent peace to the songs of Apollo, And sweeten'd the sweet of his voice : Mute are the voices, alas ! And alas ! we are deaf that heard. Who will grant to my head Water ? Or who for mine eyes Will open a fountain of tears ? So that by night I may weep, And may weep by day ; Like as the dove, widow'd, is wont, i Of course Lorenzo, the laurut. 66 FOR THE DEAD LORENZO Or the swan that dieth is wont, Like as the nightingale : Crying, Woe is for me ! Grief, ah, my grief ! 6 7 THE SPRING COPPICE OPE your eyes, lift up your eyes, Winds are blowing fair ; Winds are fair and skies are true, Frost shall never make you rue Spring is in the air ! Have no fear, what is to fear ? Woods are washt and clean ; Woods are dusted green and gold, Gone are sourness, winter cold Loving-time is in. Kiss their lids, the rosy lids Vein'd and silver-rimm'd, 68 THE SPRING COPPICE Blushes on them kiss them, Wind, Kiss and leave no sting behind Lest the eyes be dimm'd. White and gold, wood-flowers, behold ! Powder'd o'er the copse : Woods yet faint, but ye are strong, Lead the virginal prick-song Till the music stops. Wild hedge-buds, O dewy buds, Laugh ye, strain and sing : Sing till leaves your sun shall hide ; Birds may hymn the Summer's pride Ye are gone with Spring. Spring is shy, forward and shy, Like a silly maid ; 69 SONGS One that pouts when love is in, Sighs that love may soon begin, Droops her eyes and cocks her chin, Eager and afraid. Cuckoo call, O shout your call Over wood and grass. They will whisper it the river, Life must leap or now or never Spring 's a fickle lass ! Woo her then before she pass. STORNELLI FLOWER of the May ! What shall I do to make her forget me ? She is so sad that should be so gay. Ah, jessamine flower ! I toucht her hand and it set me on fire : t What would her lips do for power ? scarlet sorrel She that I love hath so pretty a rage 1 love her wildest when she and I quarrel. SONGS Honey of lime ! Loving is easy ; but how to end loving ! Ah, that is harder than rhyme ! Wild purple heather, You who have lain in her bosom this morn Lie now in mine, and link us together. ISEULT OF THE MILL SHE stood among the budding grass, The young man by her side. He was so young, She was so fair, 'Fore the Mass, they made a lovely pair All the yellow eventide. With O the swathes of grass ! When the moon rose it came to pass The maid sat there alone. One hand on her chin, One hand to her side, Where her heart throbb'd the wound did chide : 73 SONGS The grieving bird with her made moan, With, Woe 's my love, alas ! " Kissing her is but to be stung : " Ware shrew ! " said the swain. " She is too fell, " I am too meek." She had an angry spot in each cheek, She drove him out with her disdain : Sing, Woe ! the scolding tongue. 74 ARIADNE FORSAKEN (CHORUS FROM A PLAY) HE swept remorse from his eyes ; with un- staying feet For the foam-bitten shores He hasten'd, hounded by Fate. Soon shall the sails, like cliffs, cover the fleet, The sea flash white to the freight, The pulse and the thresh of the oars. Winged man, born of woman, outsoars The hawk in his flight: he falleth anon and outpours His eager estate. 75 SONGS ii The Olympian breathed with his mouth, the hero passionate-blind, Drave where he led As a ship whose helmsman is gone ; Yea, as a ship smitten, curst by the wind, He went out muttering, wan ; He spake not, turn'd not his head. Where is the chaplet of love ? It is faded, is dead ! Woe to the Spousal, the Bride, the desolate bed, Loveless, alone ! HI Woman that liveth to love, to trust, and to cling, Being forsworn, 7 6 ARIADNE FORSAKEN Choketh the tears as they start, Masketh the glint of her passion, traileth her wing As a bird, grieveth apart, Tearless, voiceless, forlorn. Ripple of laughing and speech hath she to love ; i but to mourn, Tempest of sighs, and labouring bosom, and shorn Hair, and dead heart. IV Man that is born of woman, purposeful, bound, Lifteth his eyes To the wild splendour of God, Dazed and blinded : Earth he loveth, her sound As of flutes and reed-music, her load Of beauty and ecstasies. 77 SONGS But how shall he know to love the terrors, the mysteries, The hush of the silence, the brooding, the still surprise, The awful Abode ? v This is the lot of a woman, she boweth her knees, Yieldeth her limbs, Giveth her candour, her untrodden soul, Into thy keeping, O man ! For lordship she sees Thron'd on thy brows, and control. Lit by thy favour she swims Halo'd about with the sun of thy smiling, and hymns Hymeneal, with odours of myrtle, and dreams Golden and whole ! ARIADNE FORSAKEN VI Whenas the bruit of the battle, and lust of the war, The smell of the sea, Drive thee abroad, she cannot gainsay Aught of thy purpose, O man ; but dumbly afar Setteth her eyes to the day : She bendeth her knee. Hope against hope ! for the strength of the God is on thee, Fever of blood-thirst, passion that tangles the free, Have thee for prey. VII Power have Gods to drive us whither they will, Humble our knees, Lure us to ruin and sin : 79 SONGS Power to whelm, spurn, madden, and kill ; Crave us they may, net, and fasten us in, Launch us on desolate seas ! Such might have the Gods, and power ; but no peace Follows them there. Men they may bind at their ease, But their love never win ! 80 MEDITATIONS F FLOS VIRGINUM WHERE is a holier thing In a fair world apparell'd for our bliss Than the pure influence That dwells in a girl's heart And beams from her quiet eyes ? Earth has no ministering So lovely, so acceptable or wise, Withal so frail as this ; Which, if man win, it needeth all his art, Lest uncouth violence, Rough mastery, or the tyrannies of earth, Should maim or shatter out With ill-timed speech or flout Her wistful-tender'd balm at very birth. MEDITATIONS Her Motherhood to be She hides in her child-bosom, as a seed That creepeth to be flower Long ere it feeleth light : She nurtureth her lover. Within her arms made free, Upon her heart made restful, given over To her most gentle deed, He lieth watcht upon by her grave sight ; And she liveth her hour, Contented to be Mother to this child, Given before her time Assurance whence to climb Up to her real throne of Godhead mild. Then in her perfect day, Whenas her sanguine flower hath burst the sheath, 84 FLOS VIRGINUM And she, a maiden tall. Doth soberly give up Her sanctity and grace, Her childhood's free array, To win her order'd and appointed place ; Submissness as a wreath Lieth upon her ; and she is a cup Of bounties unto all. So all that come about her worship her, And in her pleasance find Peace and a quiet mind, Her pledge of honour, and her harbinger. When the crown of her flesh, New flesh ensoul'd from her saint armoury Of pure flesh sublimated, Is set upon her brows, All her strength she will give MEDITATIONS To draw it out from the mesh Of circumstance adverse, that so it live And grow to bud, as she Herself from grafted slip became a rose ; Her prayer is consummated In her meek mercies and her tenderness For this groping and blind Whisper of love behind, And stronger cry of joy and thankfulness. Ah, frailer than a breath, Sullied sooner, more fatally than glass ! If such most desolate Pitiful lot be hers, That a brute-soul possess And goad her to her death ; Death were more welcome than the piteousness Of life, for she would pass 86 FLOS VIRGINUM Up to the stars, the silent messengers Of God who from his seat Weepeth for beauty driven down by dearth Of love to peak and fail, To wring hands and turn pale, Eyeing dismay'd the shock of her soul's worth. PREPARATION I ARISE to anoint my soul With the unction of her sweet breath, To bathe and wash in the light Of her eyes clearer than snow. Her eyes are like hyacinth, And deep as the sea, and dark As the hold of the mountain water. To-day, in an hour, she and I Will be face to face : from her eyes Her startled soul will look out, And mine will be comforted To lend comfort to hers. 88 PREPARATION Ah, Saint Lucy, whose light Ceased not with breath, nor was quencht Under the knife-edge ! Now With the scars heal'd you are come, Stoopt from heaven to earth : And your eyes kindle and burn, Gleam insurgent, are dewy Like April blotted in tears, Or quick to the Sun. Laugh now ! Laugh now, let no crying Beat at your heart's shut door For the treasure hidden and held. Ah, little Maid ! Ah, little Queen, crown'd and raised up above, Are you afraid ? Are you tremulous, fearing the accolade Of my singing of love ? 8 9 MEDITATIONS The flutter'd heart of a bird Throbs thro' his wing ; your heart Cries in your mutinous mouth, In your wide eyes, in your meek Hands folded and still ! Give me your two hands so ; let me hold and kneel Till the tempest be done, And the sun shine over your face. 90 'DONNA E GENTIL ' THY lonely virginal air, And thy vague eyes, The carven stillness of thy sorrowful mouth, And sanctity of thy youth, Mark thee for no man's prize : Set thee apart to be fair, Holy, lovely, and wise. Being so fair thou art holy Even as Beatrice is : Sister-torches of God, Twin pastures untrod, Handmaidens meek and lowly, MEDITATIONS Consecrate priestesses, To Heaven dedicate wholly. Thy face drinketh the light ! Moon-lit, girdled with stars, Sapphire-gemm'd and adorn'd, Thou art that lamp which burn'd From the beginning ! The bars Of Wisdom were overturn'd : Innocence claim'd her birthright. In the clear spaces of Heaven As sisters and lovers sit Beatrice and Thou embraced, Hand and hand, waist and waist, And smile at the worship given By Earth, and the men in it To whom you were manifest. 92 'DONNA E GENTIL ' And because I have loved you well, And because I was born for this (As the great Tuscan was born To love and serve Beatrice), I, who have suffer'd all scorn, Spend my treasure to tell All your high worthiness. 93 ROSA NASCOSA MORE than those Enfranchised beauties her perfection shows, Like a concealed rose, But to the thickets where she lieth close. These libertines Encompass her with hardy-visaged spines ; She frets not nor repines, But does their bidding meekly, and resigns Herself to be Their bond-servant, who should be more than free; Having a liberty There where her soul can fear no enemy. 94 ROSA NASCOSA There she doth find, All broad dominion and a heaven all kind, In her unravisht mind Whereto her brute possessioners are blind. Possession goes No deeper than the surface ; there are mines Far down, whose sacred fee And golden hold no trammelling can bind. 95 ARTEMISION Now Winter stealeth out like a white nun, Cloaking her face behind her icy fingers, And men each day look longer at the Sun, While late and later yet the sweet light lingers. Fast by the hedgerows, bit by gales of March, A chaplet for thy brows of delicate leaves Tendrils of briony, ruby tufts of larch, Woodsorrel, crocus pale, the New Year weaves. Yet is thy smile half wintry, as forlorn To view thy state too solemn for thy years, 96 ARTEMISION And half amazed as a flower's, late born, And not more quick for pleasure than for tears. Thy month austere telleth thy cloistral fashion : March frost thy pride is, March wind thy pent passion. 97 SAINT BEAUTY ' Orpensa quanta bellezza avea . . . che nessuno che la vedesst mai la guardb per concupiscenza, tanto era la santita che rilu- strava in lei.' SAVONAROLA. IN chamber thought my mind is like a fire Kindled and set to roar by a strong wind, And my tongue eloquent, and my eyes blind To all but mad pursuit of their desire. But I am mute before thee, as a quire Of singers when one chant soars unconfin'd From one gold-throated minstrel : thou dost bind My lips, eyes, heart, my very thought's attire. For body's beauty is thy soul's thin veil 9 8 SAINT BEAUTY Wherethro' soul's beauty shineth like a jewel Blood-bright, whose too pure strength would else assail Earth-groping eyes : it hath thy soul's im- press, It hath thy soul's white magic, but, less cruel, Soul's pride softened by body's courteous- ness. 99 EROS NARCISSUS IF I should force the sentries of her lips, What should it profit me, to shock her soul ? Or see young Faith in pitiful eclipse, Or watch her don Abasement's leaden stole ? If I should bid her tell me all her love, Bare all the rosy secret of her heart ; What gain, to see her spoil herself thereof? For her what gain, to see her love depart ? Her lovely mystery is her loveliness, And her sweet reticence her seal of price ; 100 EROS-NARCISSUS For what she loveth darkly that she is Priestess, communicant, and sacrifice. In her own mould she fashions Love, and he Scarce knows himself, vested so tenderly. 101 THAT STONE WALLS CAN NEVER SEPARATE HIM FROM HIS LADY NEVER the shadow of a summer cloud Can fleet between my Lady and my loving ; The miser World shall find my head unbow'd And my heart's temper high beyond its proving. My heart is fixt to be her Prisoner, And she, an honest Janitress, the keys Doth shrine in her own heart as Treasurer, So sure that Death itself were not Decease. For if upon a day Fate proved unkind And grimly stalkt betwixt my Love and me, 102 THE INSEPARABLE LOVER The glancing motions of her faithful mind Would glint athwart him plain for me to see And in her beamy light above his shroud I 'd see her smile, gay, confident, and proud. 103 HIS LADY A THIEF THAT intercourse with thee I have in dreams But serves to whet my anguish to be reft, Not of thy sight which visits me in gleams, But of my consciousness of thy sweet theft. Thou wert the thief of me, and I, the thiev'd, Felt such great riches viewing thee in act To rob me daily, nothing less I griev'd Than being accessory to thy fact. Now by a forced decree love to the lover Is render'd back, it hath no further use 104 HIS LADY A THIEF Than stare reproach at him who gave it over, And lookt to gain by so much he did lose. O my blest thief, come rifle all my treasure ; T cannot love but only out of measure ! 105 HAVING LOST HIS LADY HAD I but loved her as I ought Instead of as she would, Following the tenour of my thought And heedless of her mood, Inaction had obtain'd what now By shock of arms is lost ; Beleaguer'd ladies soonest bow Their he-ads, like flowers, to frost. But or too courteous was I Indifference to feign, Or too solicitous to buy Ease from my private pain. 1 06 HAVING LOST HIS LADY Like one who, burning, seeks new fire From that which made him smart, Or o'er desirous begs desire Ere he hath rid his heart ; Surfeited frenzy I did win, And woke not love but dread : There shall no traveller to that inn Where clamour makes the bed. 107 PROMETHEUS THAT most fatally dower'd, Prometheus, of all men's seed, Lifted up restless eyes From our most gentle earth, And sought the glint of the skies, And stole immortal fire To our immortal woe. For that keen flame of Heaven, Swifter than glancing light Or leap of sound, than the air More subtle, than day more bright Thought, which to God is given Creative, is our despair, And a load we cannot bear. 108 PROMETHEUS It burneth in the brain, It throbbeth deep in the heart, Before its blade our eyes Dazzle, we reel and go Whither our hot thought flies, Up to the deathless Gods, Then cry, In vain ! It is vain ! Man is a cage of pain, His thought is a pure thin fire That beateth against the bars And bonds of his grosser part, Astrain for the sky. And behold The flame roareth and rendeth, And the war nor stayeth nor endeth Then at last when the bars Of the body shatter' d and torn 109 MEDITATIONS Cleave asunder, the flame Winneth the bitter stars (Keener than scimitars), And man lieth prone in shame Better not to be born ! 1 10 SONG AND ART ART, the delicate boy, And Song, his little half-brother, Both were children of Love ; But Song had Tears for his Mother, And Art was issue of Joy. Song shed on us like rain The stream of his murmur'd story, And Art was our masterful sun When the morning utter'd his glory, And the flowers drank and were fain. Ill MEDITATIONS Song pluckt the strings of the heart ; Crying and high possession Held the soul as he sway'd : The pride of the eyes and the passion Of the stirr'd sense held Art. Grief and the grace of speech Song gave men from his Mother ; And Art gave laughing and joy. But brother coveted brother His birthright, and each grudged each. Art had commerce with Pain ; She bit him and led him a-sinning ; And Song threw over his harp, For he saw a Corybant grinning, And piped to her mad refrain. 112 SONG AND ART Art, the delicate boy, And Song, his little half-brother, Both the children of Love Song in blood drown'd his Mother, And Art grew to stifle Joy. H 113 SHAKESPEARE IN CHURCH IN the grey church, by the slow river side, Hard by the altar, calling the altar's God, That one who erst had spread his wings abroad And sail'd remote in dim great worlds and wide, Knowing the mystery of them, and the pride Of kingship over them that earth-ways trod, Prouder than Pride and greater, kist the rod, Took up the Cross, and, calling on Christ, died. His grave long vision that swept beyond our ken Saw golden Harmony, steadfast passionless Measure, And Order stablisht by divine decree ; U4 SHAKESPEARE IN CHURCH Knew those who bent to Destiny, bravest men, That with unwinking eyes did God's good pleasure : He therefore, soul upright, did bend his knee. GULLS ON THE THAMES FROM what long shore, O wastrel company ! Come on the pulse of what distressful wings ? What discord internecine sunders ye Each from his fellow, stony-hearted kings O' the air, sailing remote, askance ? The sea Storm-tost and black reckt not your hanker- ings, But drove you like a snow-cloud from her lee, To bicker and swoop o'er sodden river things. Like snowflakes in a riot of unrest They drift athwart the winter beam o' the sun, GULLS ON THE THAMES Wrangling and battling their wild wings, and scream Harsh challenge ; or deep-nested in the stream Search the waste waters desolate and dun ; Then beating upwards urge their clamorous quest. 117 BALLAD OF CLYTlti HEARKEN, O passers, what thing Fortuned in Hellas. A maid, Lissom and white as the roe, Lived recess'd in a glade. Clytie, Hamadryad, She was called that I sing Flower so fair, so frail, that to bring her a woe, Surely a pitiful thing ! A wild bright creature of trees, Brooks, and the sun among leaves, Clytie, grown to be maid : Ah, she had eyes like the sea's 118 BALLAD OF CLYTIE Iris of green and blue ! White as sea-foam her brows, And her hair reedy and gold : So she grew and waxt supple and fit to be spouse In a king's palace of old. All in a kirtle of green. With her tangle of red-gold hair, In the live heart of an oak, Clytie, harbouring there, Throned there as a queen, Clytie wondering woke : Ah, child, what set thee too high for thy sweet demesne, And who ponder'd the doleful stroke ? For the child that was maiden grown, The queen of the forest places, MEDITATIONS Clytid, Hamadryad, Tired of the joy she had, And the kingdom that was her own ; And tired of the quick wood-races, And joy of herself in the pool when she wonder'd down, And tired of her budded graces. And the child lookt up to the Sun And the burning track of his car In the broad serene above her : ' O King Sun, be thou my lover, For my beauty is just begun. I am fresh and fair as a star ; Come, lie where the lilies are : Behold, I am fair and dainty and white all over, And I waste in the wood unknown ! ' 120 BALLAD OF CLYTIE Rose-flusht, daring, she strain'd Her young arms up, and she voiced The wild desire of her heart. The woodland heard her, the faun, The satyr, and things that start, Peering, heard her; the dove, crooning, complain'd In the pine-tree hard by the lawn. Only the runnel rejoiced In his rushy hollow apart To see her beauty flash up ^ White and red as the dawn. Sorrow, ye passers-by, The quick lift of her word, The crimson blush of her pride ! Heard her the heavens' lord In his flaming seat in the sky : 121 MEDITATIONS 'Overbold of her years that will not be denied; She would be the Sun-God's bride ! ' His brow it was like the flat of a sword, And levin the glance of his side. For he bent unto her, and his mouth Burnt her like coals of fire ; He gazed with passionate eyes, Like flame that kindles and dries, And his breath suckt hers as the white rage of the South Draws life ; his desire Was like to a tiger's drouth. What shall the slim maiden avail ? Alas, and alas for her youth ! Tremble, O maids, that would set Your love-longing to the Sun ! 122 BALLAD OF CLYTIE For Clytie mourn, and take heed How she loved her king and did bleed Ere kissing had yet begun. For lo ! one shaft from his terrible eyes she met. And it burnt to her soul, and anon She paled, and the fever-fret Did bite to her bones ; and wan She fell to rueing the deed. Mark ye, maidens, and cower ! Lo, for an end of breath, Clytie, hardy and frail, Anguisht after her death. For the Sun-flower droops and is pale When her king hideth his power, And ever draggeth the woe of her piteous tale, 123 MEDITATIONS As a woman that laboureth Yet never reacheth the hour : So Clytie yearns to the Sun, for her wraith Moans in the bow'd sun-flower. Clytie, Hamadryad, Called was she that I sing : Flower so fair and frail that to work her this woe, Surely a pitiful thing ! 124 LA PIA ' Siena mife, disfecemi Maremma.' THE dark is round me like a bed ; I push the hair from off my face : That blue line, like a little thread Is all the hint in this deep place That the sun still shines overhead. I wait the moment it begins, From where I crouch on hands and knees I watch it as it fills and thins And think I hear the wistful trees : It seemeth summer till it dims. 125 MEDITATIONS Siena was the stony hold Where I was cradled. Ere my years Twice seven winter times had told Set in a moon that froze my tears, And I, that knew not youth, was old. He ringed me on the wedding hand, For thus were maidens bought and sold, And dower'd me with house and land, And kist me : but my lips were cold, My knees shook that I scarce could stand. My fief was all that windy house Whose entry lock was like a fang ; Alone I was with bat and mouse Whenas the door had ceased its clang, And him that was the lord of us. 126 LA PIA Sometimes he call'd me ' little child/ And set his long hand to my hair ; And he would laugh when I lookt wild. To eye him like a crippled hare. I feared him chiefest when he smiled. His smile was like a starven man's That waits until his friend shall die, And laughs as madmen laugh, and plans His glut of hatred by-and-by, And feeds his hunger as^he scans. Still in my vigils I can view Maremma glimmer like a sea Towards that other sea whose hue And limit touch eternity, And touching melt blue into blue. I2 7 MEDITATIONS He was beside me those long days, His terror made me cold o' nights : He scarcely spoke or fixed gaze Upon me, yet the shifty lights Of his chill eyes followed my ways. Once he did laugh on me, then frown'd Because I ran and clutcht the door; Once more he laught that day he found My eyes grown hollow : yet once more 'Tis that which haunts me underground. I am too thin to rise and wail, I am too chill to be athirst ; I cannot pray, I am too frail To shriek my sorrow if I durst : No one can see how I am pale. 128 LA PIA I have not grace enough to die ; I have no friend ; there is no God. I bit my lip till it ran dry To write my legend in my blood On the bare wall 'gainst which I lie. That on the day when I am dead For to all men cometh to die At last who leaneth o'er my bed With a struck light to see me by, May know this dark made me afraid. 129 THE SAINTS' MAYING SINCE green earth is awake Let us now pastime take, Not serving wantonness Too well, nor niggardess, Which monks of men would make. But clothed like earth in green, With jocund hearts and clean, We will take hands and go Singing where quietly blow The flowers of Spring's demesne. 130 THE SAINTS' MAYING The cuckoo haileth loud The open sky ; no cloud Doth fleck the earth's blue tent The land laughs, well content To put off winter shroud. Now, since 'tis Easter Day, All Christians may have play ; The young Saints, all agaze For Christ in Heaven's maze, May laugh who wont to pray. Then welcome to our round They light on homely ground : Agnes, Saint Cecily, Agatha, Dorothy, Margaret, Hildegonde ; MEDITATIONS Next come with Barbara Lucy and Ursula ; And last, queen of the Nine, Clear-eyed Saint Catherine Joyful arrayeth her. Then chooseth each her lad, And after frolic had Of dance and carolling And playing in a ring, Seek all the woodland shade. And there for each his lass Her man a nosegay has, Which better than word spoken Might stand to be her token And emblem of her grace. 132 THE SAINTS' MAYING For Cecily, who bent Her slim white neck and went To Heaven a virgin still, The nodding daffodil That bends but is not shent. Lucy, whose wounded eyes Opened in Heaven star- wise, The lady-smock, whose light Doth prank the grass with white, Taketh for badge and prize. Because for Lord Christ's hest Men shore thy warm bright breast, Agatha, see thy part Showed in the burning heart Of the white crocus best. 133 MEDITATIONS What fate was Barbara's Shut in the tower of brass, We figure and hold up Within the stiff king-cup That crowns the meadow grass. Agnes, than whose King Death Stayed no more delicate breath On earth, we give for dower Wood-sorrel, that frail flower That Spring first quickeneth. Dorothy, whose shrill voice Bade Heathendom rejoice, The sweet-breath'd cowslip hath ; And Margaret, who in death Saw Heaven, her pearly choice. 134 THE SAINTS' MAYING Then she of virgin brood Whom Prince of Britain woo'd, Ursula, takes by favour The hyacinth whose savour Enskies the sunny wood. Hildegonde, whose spirit high The Cross did not deny, Yet blusht to feel the shame, Anemones must claim, Whose roses early die. Last, she who gave in pledge Her neck to the wheel's edge, Taketh the fresh primrose Which (even as she her foes) Redeems the wintry hedge. 135 MEDITATIONS So garlanded, entwined, Each as may prompt her mind, The Saints renew for Earth And Heaven such seemly mirth As God once had design'd. And when the day is done, And veil'd the goodly Sun, Each man his maid by right Doth kiss and bid Good-night ; And home goes every one. The maids to Heaven do hie To serve God soberly ; The lads, their loves in Heaven, What lowly work is given They do to win the sky. THE END UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES COLLEGE LIBRARY This book is due on the last date stamped below. \- v Book 81ip-35m-9,'62(D2218s4)4280 UCLA-College Library PR4787S691 L 005 703 559 4 College Library PR ^78? S691 A 001 173638 6 I