THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES SONGS TO A SINGER AND OTHER VERSES SONGS TO A SINGER AND OTHER VERSES BY ROSA NEWMARCH LONDON : JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMVI Printed by BALLANTYNE &* Co. LIMITED Tavistock Street, London CONTENTS SONGS TO A SINGER PAGE THE PRELUDE TO DAY g WHITE ROSE OR RED? II THE ROSE OF SONG 12 EUPHROSYNE 14 STARLESS NIGHTS 15 THE GIFT : SONNET l6 THE HOPE OF JUNE 18 A SONG OF FLOOD TIDE 2O ACROSS CHANNEL 22 A SONG OF DAWN 24 "DOUSHA MOYA" 26 SONNET 27 ROSE OK ROSES 29 AUBADE 30 MIDSUMMER'S STARS 31 THE COMING OF WINTER : SONNET .... 32 MY BIRTHDAY 34 MYSTICAL SONG . 36 CONTENTS PAGE OUR SILENCES 37 NEW YEAR'S EVE . 38 THE BITTER MELODY .... 39 SOME NIGHT TO COME 40 THE FALLEN STAR .... 42 A KISS AT SUNSET .... 43 FOREST SONG 45 47 SONG: RUSSIAN STYLE 49 AFTER-THOUGHTS .... 51 LES HEURES TENEBRES 52 WHERE LINERS PASS .... 54 56 VERSES SAINT ELIZABETH .... 61 REALIST TO IDEALIST .... . . . 64 IN FLOODTIME . . . 67 TO A WANDERER .... THE DOUBLE LIFE .... 70 THE SONG UNSUNG .... . 75 STORNELLI 80 FIVE TATAR FOLK-SONGS 82 CONTENTS FRAGMENTS FROM "KING WALDEMAR" PAGE WALDEMAR'S LOVE-SONG 87 WALDEMAR SINGS AT MIDNIGHT .... 88 TOVE'S REPLY 9O THE LOVE DUET 92 THE PRESAGE 93 QUEEN HELVIG'S SONG 94 THE TIDINGS 95 TOVE'S DIRGE 95 TOVE'S BURIAL 97 KING WALDEMAR'S LAMENT ..... 100 WALDEMAR'S DESPAIR . 101 KING WALDEMAR'S MIDNIGHT CHASE .... 102 EPILOGUE : THE SUMMER WIND'S WILD CHASE . . IO4 THE PRELUDE TO DAY THE violins had stirred with hopes that died, Like winds too weak to usher in the morn, While to the dark-toned basses still replied The sad, uncertain echo of the horn. The impending mass of music seemed to brood Inert and torpid, as nocturnal earth Waits pulseless in the vague disquietude Of that last hour which shrouds the daylight's birth. Until the blast of trumpets came to break And splinter darkness into saffron bars; io THE PRELUDE TO DAY Then flute scales, as from throstles half-awake, And harp-chords like the farewell sigh of stars. But last of all the effulgence of your voice Rose, scattering all the lingering fears of night, And bade my heart grow warm, my soul rejoice ; As though God said once more : " Let there be light r WHITE ROSE OR RED? MY singer, sing a song that flows In a silver melody, Chaster than the breeze that blows From a winter moonlit sea, Blanched to perfect purity Like the heart of some white rose. My singer, sing a song that glows Fiercer than a smouldering pyre, Linked to melody that grows Ever stronger, fuller, higher, Shot with dusk and scent and fire, Like the heart of some red rose. THE ROSE OF SONG " Strange rose which blossoms f fee On boughs of an enchanted tree And sings like any bird " A. LANG SHE stands superb ; a queen apart From all the radiant, jewelled throng, As when a rose unfolds among The gay parterres her glowing heart, All lesser flowers, though rare and sweet, Must seem but subjects at her feet. She sings : each lifted face in turn Is touched with rapture or with pain. O voice, wherein life's triumphs reign ! THE ROSE OF SONG 13 O voice, wherein life's passions yearn ! My heart salutes her queen above All queens, my Singing Rose of Love ! EUPHROSYNE SET, O star malign, That too long has cast On this life of mine Rays which pierce and blast, Star, whose mocking light Misleads like blackest night. Rise another star, Shining but to bless, Milder, dearer far, In its tenderness : Star, all stars among, Whose course is like a song ! STARLESS NIGHTS THE sky is dull and softly clouded With vapours all too slight for shape ; Her gold and purple closely shrouded, Night seems a banner swathed in crape. The sea lies blank ; I hear it calling And straining towards the darkened land ; A line of silver, dimly falling, Shows where it meets the hidden sand. Through gloom of starless nights, the ocean Still finds a way to reach the shores, As through life's stress some veiled emotion Has drawn my soul in touch with yours. THE GIFT AH, would that I might spread my arms and gather The essence of all beauty earth contains : The bloom of hills at sundown ; jewelled chains Of midnight stars ; hues from the peacock's feather ; The thrill of frost ; the glow of harvest weather ; The fragrance of pale jasmine after rains And golden songs before their passion wanes, To blend these in one regal gift together. THE GIFT 17 But since, dear child, I am not God in Heaven, To crush this world, as one might crush a flower, And o'er your life its yielded sweets diffuse, I can but give to-day what I have given Unasked, eluded, since our meeting hour My great, vain love for which you have no use. THE HOPE OF JUNE BRING, O Maytide, to the earth, Festal robes and songs of mirth. Clothe the fields in emerald Silks, by fairy hands forestalled, Woven in April's magic looms. Crown the lilac bush with plumes, Gild the slopes with fragrant blooms, Deck in bridal white the hedges, Fringe the brook with flowering sedges. Give all nature her desire, Birds their mates and maids their lovers. I will wait, till summer's fire Warms to life yon thorny briar, THE HOPE OF JUNE 19 Where all day my fancy hovers, From grey dawn to golden close, O'er one proud, defiant rose. A SONG OF FLOOD TIDE FROM the bosom of mid-ocean With a glad and lifting motion Flood tide comes in swift commotion. Like a lover new to blisses, First earth's garment hem he kisses, Where the wet beach drags and hisses. Now leaps skyward, now curves under, Flings upon her lap the wonder Of his shimmering, deep-sea plunder. A SONG OF FLOOD TIDE 21 Then in wooing waxing bolder, Reaches to her sun- warmed shoulder, Stretching yearning arms to hold her, Till cold pools and arid shingle In his salt embraces tingle, Earth and sea in passion mingle. ACROSS CHANNEL ONE short June night of yearning, One bird's clear matin song, Twelve hours of golden sunshine A day twelve hours too long ; A race through Kentish hop-fields, A flashing arc of blue, The low, green fields of Flanders And then I come to you ! O stars, desist from roaming, Wake birds and call the light ; Morn melt in noon and midday Mix instantly with night ; ACROSS CHANNEL 23 Throb with my haste, hot engines, Set seaward, wind and tide My heart outleaps each moment That keeps me from your side ! A SONG OF DAWN Front A. P. Jacobsen AWAKE to joy, O flowers, Arise and throw The dewdrops from your faces ! The sun puts forth his powers, The stars must go To hide in dim sky-spaces. Already through the grass The mottled snake Glides to the water's edge. A SONG OF DAWN 25 The rosy dawn-mists pass And birds awake To sing in hurst and hedge. Drop from the lily's cup, Bright lady-bird, And bid your wife come too ! The summer sun is up, The lark is heard, The world is born anew ! "DOUSHA MOYA" " DOUSHA moya," once long ago I spoke the Russian words in jest, Which pleased thee, though thou didst not know Their highest meaning and their best, Nor dream that thou shouldst come to be Dousha moya, " the soul of me." Dousha moya, if thou shouldst tire And care no more to be the breath Of impulse, and the active fire That keeps my soul from sloth and death, How aimless life and work would be, Dousha moya, deprived of thee ! SONNET YOUR heart is no enclosed garden-space Where treacherous pools lie hid from sun and breeze, And stealthy paths, yew-shaded mysteries, Lead on lost lovers in a fruitless chase ; Nor is it like a close-trimmed public place, Where fairest plants and spiciest rosaries Are kept for show, and all is trained to please A loit'ring crowd with artificial grace. Ah no ! Your heart is spacious, frank and free, As the wild heath-tracts of your northern land, Swept clean by mountain winds ; a spot to be 28 SONNET The singing-ground of larks, the enchanted strand Of happy children and my dream of ease When the world wreaks its petty tyrannies. ROSE OF ROSES ROSE of roses ! All life's garden Knows the secret of thy presence, Like a sweet, soul-healing essence Breathing love and shedding pardon. Sweet when noontide's sun has flushed thee, Sweeter still when rains have crushed thee. Rose of life, too bright, too tender, For the garden of my spirit, Desert land that does not merit Perfume rare and crimson splendour ! Dear in noontide's golden gladness, Dearest in the dusk of sadness. AUBADE COME, morn, to melt the shadows That keep the roses grey. Stir, thrush, and wake my singer, Break, primrose dawn, and bring her Across the glistening meadows To set the key of day ! MIDSUMMER'S STARS ARCTURUS, Vega and Altair, Antares, burning fiercely red, And all June's stars that overhead Are quivering in the limpid air, Shine while ye may, for ye shall be Wan and grey, Dissolved away, When mine own Star shines forth on me. THE COMING OF WINTER NOW woods are black and orchards stripped of fruit, And half the empty fields are ploughed and tilled For next year's harvest ; now the dykes are filled With shining floods of autumn, where the coot Dips among yellowing reeds ; the blackbird's flute, Late tuned to strange tonalities, is stilled ; Now robins sing ; and every night the chilled Gery world puts on frost's silver-broidered suit. THE COMING OF WINTER 33 But winter cannot reach my heart while I Fold closely there a dream as dear as true : How in the brief November days we two Shall meet in flame-lit dusk, and you will sing Songs that recall the timid hopes of Spring, And all the glad fulfilment of July. MY BIRTHDAY ALL day the fog has brooded, The streets are dark and cold, My heart is grey with shadows That warn me I am old. I dare not face the firelight, For where it smoulders red Too many visions gather Of men and women dead. I look through yellow windows Upon a yellow square ; My gate creaks on its hinges, My friend has entered there. MY BIRTHDAY 35 My friend has crossed the threshold, I hear her voice that sings, And age and fog and sadness Are long-forgotten things ! MYSTICAL SONG As clouds are drawn along a river's course Out to some distant, unconjectured sea, So down a silver stream of melody My soul to yours is drawn by mystic force. Serene and stilled, my life floats just above The deep, smooth current of your songs that flow, And is too well content with dreams to know Or reckon with the actual joys of love. OUR SILENCES THE world may have your songs, Your beauty and your smiles, The art that moves great throngs, The manner that beguiles. What use have I for these, Who crave a fuller dole : Prefulgent silences When soul tells all to soul ? NEW YEAR'S EVE IF there be any way in which My ineffectual love has failed^ To make your days more full and rich ; If in life's stress I have curtailed An hour that should have been your due, Or blindly left you to uplift A load I might have borne for you ; If once I have misunderstood The reason of your smiles or tears, Or met in jest your graver mood, I can but pray the coming years Will make my wisdom more mature, That you may learn to find in me Love's sight more clear, love's touch more sure. THE BITTER MELODY IF I must name the song in which Your voice has touched my spirit most, Twas not that splendid music, rich In clarion-cries from Love's glad host, When victory and passion meet In hearts that never knew defeat. It was that bitter melody Wherein Love's triumph had no part, Which like a lone, unanswered sea Wailed out its woe, until my heart Heard its own voiceless pain that spoke, And, realising, sobbed and broke. SOME NIGHT TO COME (Jean Lahor) WITHIN your heart there lies a ray Of calm and opalescent light, Love, let me put the world away And rest there on some quiet night. Let me forget all anguish past, All failures and all life's alarms ; There in the silence hold me fast, Enfolded in your sheltering arms. Or take my thought-worn, aching head, Some night to come, upon your knee, SOME NIGHT TO COME 41 And sing to me of lovers dead, A poignant old-world melody. Till in your eyes, with pity wet, Perchance at last might be revealed Such tenderness and such regret That all my sorrows would be healed. THE FALLEN STAR ONE star has left its purple track, And from the happy skies Has pierced that ocean, blind and black, Whence never star nor ship came back, Where hope extinguished lies. O fall not thou, my star, whose spark Brought joy beyond all speech, Through hidden depths where, white and stark, My wrecked hopes drift through gulfs too dark For love's own lamp to reach. A KISS AT SUNSET KEEP your kisses, child, For younger lips than mine, And for hearts less wild To whom they are not wine. Kiss your girlish friends in play, They, who think it sweet to-day, To-morrow may have met Love's kiss and will forget. But to me your kiss Seems a leaping fire, Far too keen for bliss, Waking dead desire 44 A KISS AT SUNSET Dreams that never may be told ! Sweet, it is too late, too cold When life's sun is set To kiss and to forget. FOREST SONG THE pinewood seems the path of doom The haunt of fear and heaviness, Along its avenues of gloom The nightwind wails in pain and stress ; But ne'er a bird sits carolling In glades that yield no joy of spring. The beechwood is the lover's walk. On spreading roots, moss-tapestried, Here two may rest to dream or talk, Where strange, sea-tinted rays are shed, Too tender for the noon's broad light, Too warmly green to be of night. 46 FOREST SONG O take my hand, and let us roam Together through the hursts of beech, Where song thrills all the emerald dome And spring has hopeful things to teach ! Or must our ways divide and mine Lead back through sunless glades of pine ? SONG LOVE, like a honey-scented breeze Whose path has been o'er flowers and hives, Breathes sweetly on some happy lives, For whom his tender mysteries Remain as dreams remote, Or pastoral music, sweet and mild, Whose limpid echoes give no wild, Discordant note. Love, like a fierce autumnal gale Whose path has been o'er northern seas, Brine-bitter with the spray of these, Smites on some lives that quail 48 SONG And shrink beneath the test ; And yet the hearts Love's conflicts break And those that grieve for passion's sake He loves the best. SONG (Russian Style) IN the Heavens one star afar And above ; In my heart one star the star Of your love. On the steppes warm showers wake flowers Red and blue ; On love's way lie flowers, rare flowers, Shed by you. From the woods come songs, from throngs Of blithe birds, 50 SONG And my heart sings songs, glad songs, To your words. Where the ocean swirls, lie pearls, Fathoms deep ; In my soul-depths, shrined like pearls, Memories sleep. Snow and silence white : the night Holds its breath ; Over life creeps down the white Chill of death. AFTER-THOUGHTS MY pain is stifled. I have set My heel upon Hope's brood, new-born, And with much anguish of regret Your image from my heart is torn. Forgive me we are strangers now But if sometimes the ghost of old And murdered love should touch your brow With lips that are not yet quite cold, Bid it depart, lest it should bring A flush of shame, a thrill of fear, Some warmth from fires still smouldering, Or to your eyes one useless tear. LES HEURES TENEBRES I, WHO would give you my life As a shield for your name, I, who would give you my brain As a spur to your fame ; Turn my cold hearth to a warm, Safe place for your resting, My restless heart to a calm Resort for your nesting ; I, who would give you my all, My soul and body to spend On the things you desire What have I done in the end ? Laid on your breast like a stone LES HEURES TENEBRES 53 The weight of my sorrow and care, Shadowed your radiance, sweet friend, Loved you, and lost you at last In a dream-haunted sea of despair. WHERE LINERS PASS THE throbbing liners cut their way down Channel, Swift rangers 'twixt the old world and the new, When steel-bright sunbeams glint on mast and funnel And noon draws up the earlier mists of blue ; Or when, with grey fogs palled, their hulls at dawning Loom out like huge sarcophagi of lead, While sirens to and fro wail back a warning From treacherous Goodwins to the Serpent's Head. WHERE LINERS PASS 55 Sometimes, as though the Pleiads strayed from heaven, On passing liners clear and clustered lights Red stars and gold, along the horizon driven Flash by my casement on autumnal nights. By day or dark, in fair or stormy weather Whene'er a liner, outward-bound, steams by My lonely spirit, straining at its tether, Goes out to hail her in the sea-birds' cry : " O vessel, to the north-west gale careening, Heave to, and bear me with you overseas, Till yonder dark horizon intervening, Divide me from this world of memories." THE REST ARE DREAMS IF out of all the lovely things That I have meant to do for you, The upward flight of lyric wings To magic regions, glad and new, The flashes of creative fire, The noble truths made clear and plain- I have fulfilled one least desire For which you else had sighed in vain, This is achievement's best, Life's actual crown the rest Are dreams ! THE REST ARE DREAMS 57 If once in all the years, my friend, That I shall only live for you And watch you, careless-handed, spend Your dearest self on aims untrue, And give to others without stint The faith no zeal of mine may gain If once you show by look or hint My love has saved you one least pain, 'Twill be achievement's best, Life's actual good the rest Were dreams ! VERSES SAINT ELIZABETH "/ cannot live on dreams alone " The Saint's Tragedy IF I lay low upon my bed Wrecked by some hideous, last disease, I know that you would take my head Upon your breast to give it ease. Or if the world put me aside For some intolerable sin, Your stainless heart would open wide To fold the culprit safe within. Or if I sat at Dives' gate, A leprous beggar in distress 62 SAINT ELIZABETH And you, Princess, came by in state, You'd pause to give me alms and bless. If I should call on you to take Some unclean load of shame and pain And bear it for a stranger's sake, I should not have to call in vain. But for my daily sin of love And wasting hungers of the soul, You have the virtue to reprove, But not the faith to make me whole. And for the failing dreams of years, And for these human hopes that fall Like frost-slain buds, and for my tears, You have not any use at all, SAINT ELIZABETH 63 But on my life that burns and dies A lamp that wanes with each lone night You look with pure, unpitying eyes : God knows, my saint, if you are right ! REALIST TO IDEALIST You, whose tenderness sets free All the virtue locked in me, Will you leave this obvious good For a useless memory ? Will you leave a heart that lives Better for your sake, and gives All its substance as your food For a dream deception weaves ? My life-purpose is your own : Mould it to your ends alone. All unworthy though it be, Bread is better than a stone. REALIST TO IDEALIST 65 Leave your futile shadow-land For life's sunshine ; grasp my hand ; Learn love's actuality ; Touch my lips and understand. Hold the present ; feel the leap Of life's pulses ; hear the deep Harvest-song of them who sow Human joys that they may reap. Nay, who knows but you are wise, Gazing with unfeeling eyes O'er my living hopes laid low, To the place where memory lies. Where unchanging, faultless, chill, Dream-love can defy me still, 66 REALIST AND IDEALIST Certain that no living soul Shall his vacant office fill ... Keep your dead, inviolate past ; Hold your pale ideal fast Well I know, who crave the whole, Only dreams and memories last ! IN FLOODTIME WE parted, and the morning wept Wild rain from neutral-tinted skies, While down the street the west wind swept And mocked aloud my stifled sighs. I crossed the midlands. Far and wide The floods were out on either hand, As though the old diluvial tide Had rolled once more across the land. From morn till eve, the slant, white rain Fell with a heavy, rhythmic beat 68 IN FLOODTIME And sang a spiritless refrain Unto a world with tears replete. And listening to its ceaseless fall Upon the weary, satiate earth, Which did not ask for rain at all, But craved a space of sun and mirth, I knew how wrong my tears, and vain, That vexed your life, already full Of sadness, as the earth with rain, Whose need of joy was pitiful. Before my journeying was done, Above the watery meadows cold, Broke one pale ray of evening sun And turned those sheets of steel to gold. IN FLOODTIME 69 At which the earth looked up and smiled And half forgot her wretched plight, As I have seen a weeping child Take comfort at a hint of light. And so the floods and sunset heard My oath to love you cheerfully, To win you with a joyous word, And smile when you have wounded me. TO A WANDERER WHAT purple splendour seek'st them in the East, What ardent songs, what vintage for life's feast, What blooms of potent charm, Which were not thine in our own northern land Where skies may weep and cold waves vex the strand, But love is sure and warm ? Have I not sung thee softer melodies Than those that from the parching locust-trees To thee the white doves coo ? Or doth the nenuphar, when sun is set, Smell sweeter than an English rose, rain-wet, Or violets steeped in dew ? TO A WANDERER 71 When midday winds assail thee, hot and swift, Surcharged with flame and sharp with desert- drift, The messengers of fear, Know that my vows could win to thee as soon As demon-voices on the dread Simoon Didst thou but care to hear ! At sunset, when the level desert glows, A cold Sphinx flushes like a rock-hewn rose Which folds a mystery. Ah, did Echidna's offspring e'er conceive A riddle half so baffling to unweave As are thy ways with me ? Fierce are the fervours of the Dervish crowd, At dawn and eve the Moslem cries aloud 72 TO A WANDERER His faith from roof and tower ; But have not I, fanatic, worshipped thee, Contented thy Muezzin still to be Throughout life's every hour ? * * * * <- Dream then awhile in ancient, mystic lands, Or share the freedom of those trackless sands Where careless Bedouins rove ; Yet life holds secrets travel cannot teach Come back and wander all thy days, nor reach The limits of my love. THE DOUBLE LIFE I TOIL and strive the long day through And win no sense of efforts blessed, Yet all the while somewhere with you My anxious brain's at rest. I share in life's felicity, Such joys and jests as come and go, Still conscious that one half of me Is darkened by your woe. And while my spirit walks in night, Or mourns with them that mourn, My flesh rejoices in the light That of your laugh is born. 74 THE DOUBLE LIFE Sometimes I sit and muse apart, The idlest creature under heaven ; Yet feel your influence in my heart Is working like a leaven. Or when I sleep, that dreamless sleep, Where life and will seem things afar, There's something in me wakes to keep A vigil where you are. And I am sure when I must give My soul and body up to Death, Some faculty of mine will live So long as you have breath. THE SONG UNSUNG THE throbbing fires of day were quenched at last In the dim purple of a breathless night. The wide, slow Flemish river glided past As black as Styx, save where a spear of light Punctured its glassy surface here and there, Shot from some anchored boat ; in garden bowers, The listless roses drooped and all the air Was warm with perfumes of day-wearied flowers. Long since the sturdy team of roans had drawn The day's last load within the Chateau farm ; 76 THE SONG UNSUNG Tall trunks of elm trees, felled and roughly sawn In yon dim woods that crown the pastures warm, Whence comes a low, faint tinkle, as the sheep Move spectre-like across the darkening slope. Tis late, and yet the village does not sleep, But seems astir with some expectant hope. See, from the Master's villa, set half way Between the river and the wooded heights, Descends into the starless dusk a ray Of gathered glory, like an aureole light, And wearied workers in their doorways wait A little longer ere they nod and drowse, Since rumour flies from cottage gate to gate : "To-night there's music at the Master's house !" THE SONG UNSUNG 77 Yes, there was music, such as may bring near To mortal dulness hints of things divine ; Beethoven's loftiest utterance, vital, clear, Sprang out of silence at the Master's sign Evoked, and through the master-soul did flow Till light and sound seemed focused where he stood : The silver stream that left the silvery bow, The flash of lamplight on wine-coloured wood. The wonder ceased. Within the polished case The priceless medium, whereby two great hearts . Had met and communed with us for a space, Was laid with reverence, as a woman parts With that cold, voiceless clay that was her child. y8 THE SONG UNSUNG Then with his smile (all know the Master's ways) He sped us forth, a band of devotees To break the midnight silence with our praise, And talk of " tone " and technicalities. That brief June night I lay upon my bed And through the casement's square of filmy blue Watched a pale planet set ; my mind was fed With music, as the night was fed with dew. Master, forgive me ! It was not the strong, Deep echo of the boon by you conferred That filled my brain, but memories of a song A voice beloved had left unsung, unheard. That night I was not far, friend, from your heart, Nay, closer than I ever hoped to reach THE SONG UNSUNG 79 Across that gulf which keeps our lives apart ; Because a cryptic song came back to teach A way whereby I took you for my own, High in life's fane enthroned and sanctified, Against your will, not with it ; all unknown To you and to the callous world outside. It was a song that held a mystery. (Wolf made it ere the clouds closed o'er his brain.) "The night is still," it ran, "and thought is free And none may read my rapture or my pain, Since love of soul for soul goes unconfessed, And cloaks its bitter, as it hides its sweet ; Therefore my love, unspoken and unguessed, Is dear as darkness and as night discreet." STORNELLI FLOWER of the thorn ! My love was so blithe When I met her at morn. Honey-sweet heather ! Her hair touched my cheek As we wandered together. Flower of the ling ! On the fingers I kissed There was never a ring. STORNELLI 81 Pale blossom of privet What are pledges of love To the man who would live it ? Warm flowers of musk ! My soul was afire When we parted at dusk. Sharp spikes of the gorse ! Could I leave her the rapture And take the remorse. FIVE TATAR FOLK-SONGS I FROM out the yellow reeds which fringe the burn The wild-fowl's cry is borne along to me ; Whether I fare straight on, or backward turn, Still for my folk I pine eternally. II Ere I could pierce the forest's gloom, I broke the rowan-trees apart ; Now, severed from my race, with whom Can I take counsel in my heart ? FIVE TATAR FOLK-SONGS 83 III Good it is to stand and see How the windmills evenly Turn and turn their sails. When my love is far from me, Vain, sweet words come fluently ; Meeting her, my tongue is tied, Then the right word fails. IV How am I changed ! Upon the distant hill Is stretched a forest dark and vast, O God ! The happy days that are for others still, For me are done and overpast, O God ! 84 FIVE TATAR FOLK-SONGS V Were I a thief, I would steal a horse ; I would carry off a maid by force, If I were sly and bold. But if I were a rosy lass, I'd loosen all my heavy mass Of tresses black, or gold, And in my casement set a light For one who passes by at night. FRAGMENTS FROM "KING WALDEMAR" A LIBRETTO FOR A DRAMATIC SYMPHONY BASED ON THE "GURRESANGE" OF A. p. JACOBSEN WALDEMAR'S LOVE-SONG THE saints before the Throne, they know not such Delight as now is mine. Their harps respond less sweetly to their touch Than Wolmer's soul to thine. Ah, not more fiercely some lost soul desires To win back peace and light, Than I desired thy kiss when Gurre's spires First flashed upon my sight. I would not change these weather-beaten walls, Nor this fair gem they hold, For all the splendours of the angelic halls, With all their harps of gold. 88 FROM "KING WALDEMAR" WALDEMAR SINGS AT MIDNIGHT 'TIS midnight, when through sable glooms The wicked and unblest Pass from their long-forgotten tombs Wherein they find no rest, And, having leave once more to rise, Return to gaze, with wistful eyes, Through casements where the lamps burn bright, Or watch the homely ember-light That leaps in cottage-rooms. They shiver in the midnight blast, They drift on charnel airs ; The mocking wind that whistles past A bitter message bears To them, unsheltered and forlorn, The echoing clang of cup and horn, The love-refrains of long ago ; They sigh, and melt like April snow, Poor ghosts whose day is done. With us is life. My hand lies near Thy heart that throbs for me. My head upon thy bosom, dear, Is rocked as on a sea Of living billows, warm and white. Thy hair clings like the perfumed night. Thy kisses rain on lips and eyes, And my triumphant passion cries : " O love, our day is here ! " Time scatters bliss ; love cannot stay ! I too shall go my round 90 FROM "KING WALDEMAR" Among that band of spectres grey, And come, without a sound, To visit thee at midnight's hour, Shall closer draw my shroud and cower When cock-crow bids me sadly creep Forgotten to my grave, to weep And ask : " Where is our day ? " TOVE'S REPLY AH, Wolmer, canst thou stay to think of death Amid our bliss, While there remaineth yet both time and breath For one more kiss ? The yellow stars above that pulse and burn Must pale at morn, TOVE'S REPLY 91 Yet at each purple gloaming they return With fire reborn. Not worse, in truth, is death's mysterious way : A slumber brief From nightfall till the dawn's increasing grey Brings glad relief. Beloved, to yon faithful stars look up, And let us two Not fear to drain to Death our golden cup, Who makes love new. And when his footsteps take us unawares We will not cry " Alas ! " Nor vex him with our vain and abject prayers, But kiss and pass. 92 FROM "KING WALDEMAR" THE LOVE DUET Waldemar MY wondrous Tove, having thee I^have both earth and heaven. My spirit floats in crystal calm Like his whose sin is shriven. Tovc A white peace rests upon my soul, A folded bliss unbroken, And passion's words cool on my lips And perish there unspoken. Waldemar and Tove Do not our inmost thoughts rise up Like clouds in April weather, THE PRESAGE 93 That melt and mingle and assume More perfect forms together ? We gaze into each other's eyes And read but one soul's story ; One will, one fate, one Hell, or one Forgiveness and one glory. THE PRESAGE The Wood-dove sings WOOD-DOVES of Gurre, my sisters, Weary my pinions and slow, Bitter the tidings I bear ye, Pregnant of woe ! Queen Helvig's falcon, the cruel, Swooped upon Tove's white dove, 94 FROM "KING WALDEMAR" Pierced to its heart-core and murdered The bird of her love ! QUEEN HELVIG'S SONG SHARPER than the hunter's knife When it meets the roe-deer's flesh ; Wilder than the panting strife Of birds taken in a mesh ; Hotter than the lava-flow From the riven mountain-side ; Bitterer than those stagnant pools Left by long-forgotten tides Near a lone and oozy sea ; Vainer than the tears of fools Are the throes of jealousy. TOVE'S DIRGE 95 THE TIDINGS The Wood-dove sings WOOD-DOVES of Gurre, my sisters, Heavy my pinions and slow, Bitter the tidings I bring ye, Pregnant with woe. As I flew over the Islands, All the winds whispered of dread ; Draw near and hear the winds' message : Tove is dead. TOVE'S DIRGE The Wood-doves in Chorus TOVE' is dead ! Now darkness weighs Upon those eyes so bright and mild 96 FROM "KING WALDEMAR" That were the light of Wolmer's days. Her heart, it is hushed and chill, But the King's heart throbs madly still. Ah, woe to the heart that is numb, yet wild. The King, he drifts, a stricken bark Whose helmsman in the weeds below Lies where no eye may pierce the dark, Nor any urgent message go. Their thoughts flowed like one river Whose course no rocks dissever. Where now tend Tove's thoughts? No man may show. TOVE'S BURIAL 97 TOVE'S BURIAL The Wood-dove sings I SAW fair Tove's bier upraised By Hennig and the King The night was dark, but one torch blazed To light her burying. Queen Helvig from her balcony Beheld her lord depart. Her vengeful face was dire to see, More black than Hell her heart. But when she saw her rival dead, Borne by in such sad guise, The tears wrath would not let her shed Stood glistening in her eyes. 98 FROM "KING WALDEMAR" The King a peasant's jerkin wore, His soul was wrapped in gloom. He led his battle-steed that bore Fair Tove to her tomb. And so the gathering dark increased As slow they paced along Unto a chapel, where a priest Rang as for evensong. But when he saw the King go by He guessed his errand well, And let the tinkling echoes die, Then tolled the passing knell. Once Hennig to his Lord hath spoken, I know not if he heard, TOVE'S BURIAL For never was the silence broken By any answering word. But when, in deepest forest hid, They reached the burial-place, King Wolmer raised the coffin-lid And looked on Tove's face. Long time he looked, and kissed her too, As though his living breath Upon her lips and eyelids blue Might melt the seal of death. But when his kisses all were shed, And she had given none, He knew, at last, his love was dead And all his hopes undone. 100 FROM "KING WALDEMAR" KING WALDEMAR'S LAMENT THE mere reflects my Tove's eyes, Yon cloud recalls her breast of snow, Her voice on forest breezes low Comes to me from afar, Her smile is in that falling star Which gleams and dies. My thoughts would fashion her again From shadows born of wood, or lake, My cheated senses strive to make A dream reality. My Tov6, Wolmer yearns for thee And yearns in vain ! WALDEMAR'S DESPAIR 101 WALDEMAR'S DESPAIR O THOU, stern Judge, who sittest throned above And mock'st my anguish ; Thou who hast no need Of human sympathy and natural love, When Thou dost raise us from the dead, take heed That she and I are indivisible; Send not her soul to Heaven and mine to Hell, Lest from despair I draw such awful powers That I shall break the angelic ranks and burst The gates of gold ; fling down the jasper towers 102 FROM "KING WALDEMAR" And with my huntsmen wild leave ruin accurst- As comets work hot havoc in the skies Across the shining fields of Paradise. KING WALDEMAR'S MIDNIGHT CHASE THE SPECTRE HUNTSMEN HAIL, O King ! We come, we flock, To thy midnight tryst by mere and rock, With eyeless sockets and fleshless hands We answer, O liege, to thy commands. Now fit the shaft to the stringless bow And over the hill-tops and moorlands low The phantom stag pursue, Whose wounds bleed morning dew. KING WALDEMAR'S MIDNIGHT CHASE 103 We come, we flock, To our king in his need. Harkaway hound, harkaway steed ! Though we gallop apace Too short is the chase We must vanish at crow of cock ! * # * * * Stands the cock with lifted beak Waiting for the first dawn-streak. From our swords the morning dew Runs in drops of rust-red hue. Poor ghosts, our day is o'er, Earth swallows up once more All grisly forms that shun the light. Ere day returns in warmth and might, Back, back, Where the grave yawns black ! l