THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES Jo Jnlis LUfCrUc jfullifa ODES ODES BY LAURENCE BINYON THE UNICORN PRESS LONDON MDCCCCI TS T35a AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO W. A. P. 837465 CONTENTS PAGE The Dryad 9 The Bacchanal of Alexander 14 Asoka 23 The Death of Tristram 29 Amasis 49 Orpheus in Thrace 56 Autumn Moonrise 65 The Belfry of Bruges 69 Notes 73 ODES THE DRYAD What hath the ilex heard, What hath the laurel seen, That the pale edges of their leaves are stirred ? What spirit stole between ? O trees upon your circle of smooth green, You stir as youths when beauty paces by, Moving heart and eye To unuttered praise. Was it the wind that parted your light boughs, Some odour to recapture as he strays, Or some fair virgin shape of human brows Yet lost to human gaze ? O for that morning of the simple world, When hollow oak and fount and flowering reed 9 io ODES Were storied each with glimpses of a face By dropping hair dew-pearled ! Strange eyes that had no heed Of men, and bodies shy with the firm grace Of young fawns flying, yet of human kin, Whose hand might lead us, could we only spare Doubt and suspicious pride, a world to win, Where all that lives would speak with us, now dumb For fear of us. O might I yet win there ! Wave, boughs, aside ! to your fresh glooms I come. But all is lonely here ! Yet lonelier is the glade Than the wood's entrance, and more dark appear The hollows of still shade. Ah, yet the nymph's white feet have surely stayed Beside the spring ; how solitary fair Shines and trembles there White narcissus bloom ! By lichened gray stones, where the glancing stream Swerves over into green wet mossy gloom, Their snowy frail flames on the ripple gleam And all the place illume. THE DRYAD u Surely her feet a moment rested here ! Nerving her hand upon a pliant branch, She paused, she listened, and then glided on Half-turned in lovely fear ; And her young shoulder shone Like moonbeams that wet sands, foam-bordered, blanch, A sight to stay the beating of the breast ! Alas, but mortal eyes may never know That beauty. Hark, what bird above his nest So rapturously sings ? Ah, thou wilt tell, Thou perfect flower, whither her footsteps go, And all her thoughts, pure flower, for thou know'st well. White sweetness, richest odours round thee cling. Purely thou breathest of voluptuous Spring ! Thou art so white, because thou dost enclose All the advancing splendours of the year ; And thou hast burned beyond the reddest rose, To shine so keenly clear. Shadowed within thy radiance I divine Frail coral tinges of the anemone, Dim blue that clouds upon the columbine, And wallflower's glow as of old, fragrant wine, 12 ODES And the first tulip's sanguine clarity, And pansy's midnight-purple of sole star ! All these that wander far From thee, and wilder glories would assume, Ev'n the proud peony of drooping plume, Robed like a queen in Tyre, All to thy lost intensity aspire ; Toward thee they yearn out of encroaching gloom ; They are all faltering beams of thy most perfect fire! And she, that only haunts remote green ways, Is it an empty freedom she doth praise ? Doth she, distrustfully averse, despise The common sweet of passion, apt to fault? And turns she from the hunger in love's eyes Pale famine to exalt ? Oh no, her bosom's maiden hope is still A morning dewdrop, imaging complete All life, full-stored with every generous thrill ; No hope less perfect could her body fill, Nor she be false to her own heart's rich beat. But she is pure because she hath not soiled Hope with endeavour foiled ; She not condemns glad love, but with the best Enshrines it, lovelier because unpossest. THE DRYAD 13 Where is the joy we meant In our first love, the joy so swiftly spent? It glows for ever in her sacred breast, Untamed to languor's ebb, nor by hot passion rent. O pure abstaining Priestess of delight, That treasurest apart love's sanctity, Art thou but vision of an antique dream, Mated with a song's flight, With beckoning western gleam Or first rose fading from an early sky ? Yet we, that are of earth, must seek on earth Our bodied bliss. Nay, thou hast still thine hour ; And in a girl's life-trusting April mirth, Or noble boy's clear and victorious eyes, Thou shinest with the charm and with the power Of all that wisdom loses to be wise. THE BACC H AN AL OF ALEXANDER "Alexander, returning from his Indian Conquests, having with infinite difficulty brought his army through the salt deserts of Gedrosia, arrived in the pleasant country of the Carmanians, Some authors tell us, that reclining with his friends upon two chariots chained together, and having his ears entertained by the most delicious music, he led his army through Carmania, the soldiers following him with dances and garlands, in emulation of the ancient Bacchanals of Dionysus." — Arrian. I A WONDROUS rumour fills and stirs The wide Carmanian Vale ; On leafy hills the sunburnt vintagers Stand listening ; silent is the echoing flail Upon the threshing-floors : Girls in the orchards one another hail Over their golden stores. " Leave the dewy apples hanging flushed, Ripe to drop In our baskets! Leave the heavy grapes un- crushed, 14 BACCHANAL OF ALEXANDER 15 Leave the darkened figs, a half-pulled crop, Olive-boughs by staves unbeaten, come, All our hills be hushed ! For a Conqueror, nay a God, Comes into our land this day, From the Eastern desert dumb, That no mortal ever trod : Come we down to meet him on his way ! " From reddening vineyards steeped in sun, Trees that with riches droop, Down the green upland men and maidens run Or under the low leaves with laughter stoop. But now they pause, they hear Far trampling sounds ; and many a soft -eyed troop Murmurs a wondering fear. " Wherefore hast thou summoned us afar, Voice so proud ? Who are ye that so imperious are ? Is it he to whom all India bowed, Bacchus, and the great host that pursue Triumphing, his car ; Whom our fathers long foretold ? O if it be he, the God indeed, May his power our vines endue 16 ODES With prosperity fourfold. Bring we all ripe offerings for his need ! " Slowly along the vine-robed vale move on, Like those that walk in dream, The ranks of Macedon. O much - proved men, why doubt ye truth so sweet ? This is that fair Carmania, that did seem So far to gain, yet now is at your feet. 'Tis no Circean magic greenly crowds This vale of elms, the laden vines uprearing, The small flowers in the grass, the illumined clouds, Trembling streams with rushes lined, All in strangeness reappearing Like a blue morn to the blind ! Worn feet go happy, and parched throats may laugh, Or blissful cold drops from dipt helmets quaff; Dear comrades, flinging spears down, stand embraced And heap this rich oblivion on the waste Of torment whence they came ; That land of salt sand vaulted o'er with flame, That furnace, which for sixty days they pierced, BACCHANAL OF ALEXANDER 17 Wrapt in a hot slow cloud of pricking grains, On ever crumbling mounds, through endless plains, And ravening hands scooped fire, not water, for their thirst. Streams of Carmania, never have ye seen Such mirrored rapture of strong limbs unclad, Lips pressing, lover-like, delicious green Of leaves, or breaking into laughter mad ; Out-wearied ranks, that couched in gloom serene, Let idle memory toy With torment past whose pangs enrich the gust of joy. II O peerless Alexander ! Still From his kindling words they glow. Like a straight shaft to a bow Is their strength unto his will. He hath done what no man ever dared : That fierce desert, where great Cyrus lost All save seven of his unnumbered host, Where the proud Semiramis despaired, He hath brought his thousands through. Vainly, vainly Wind and Fire 18 ODES Stormed against the way of his desire : They at last their tamer knew. O'er mile-broad rivers, like young brooks, he stept, Walls of unconquered cities overle'pt. And now Earth yields, for storm and strife and heat, Her greenest valley to his feet. But lo ! the soft Carmanian folk, Round these warriors gathering nigh, Down the slopes with murmur shy The benignant God invoke. While they stand in wonder and in doubt, Comes a throng in leaves their heads arraying, Some on pipes and some on tabors playing, " Bacchus, Bacchus is our king," they shout, " Magic mirth into our blood he pours ; Join us, strangers, in our feast ! All our parching toil hath ceased. Give us of your fruitful valley's stores ! " Apples they heap on shields in golden domes, And spearpoints bear the dripping honeycombs. " Our Bacchus bids you to his joy," they sing ; " Lo, where he comes, the king ! " Two massy ivory cars, together bound, Roll through the parting throng ; BACCHANAL OF ALEXANDER 19 A whole uprooted vine enwreathes them round ; Long tendrils over the gold axles trail, While jubilant pipe and chanted song The cars' oncoming hail. By the dark bunches idle helms and greaves Are hung, and swords that on Hydaspes shone ; Heroic shoulders gleam betwixt the leaves ! There sits reclined on rugs of Susa spread, Throned amid his Seven of Macedon, Alexander ! his victorious head Bound with ivy and pale autumn flowers. Ah, what a sunny redolence of showers The wind wafts round him from this promised land ! Over Hephaestion's neck is laid one hand, Lightly the other holds a spear ; but now No passion fires his eye, nor deep thought knots his brow. Like his own Pella breathes this upland air ; A joy-born beauty flushes up his face, O'ersmoothing old fell rages, to replace Youth in lost lines most indolently fair. Remembrance is at peace, desire forgone, And those winged brows their watchful menace ease In languor proud as a storm-sailing swan 20 ODES New lighted on a mere from the wild seas. Beat, thrilling drums, beat low, and pipes sound on, While his full soul doth gaze From this the topmost hour of all his glorious days. Ill The shy Carmanians awed Gaze on that sun-like head. " Is it he," they murmur, " who led The mirth of the vineyard abroad ? Surely none else may bear So regal a beauty ; yet why On us turns not his eye ? We have heard that he loves not care, But the dance and idle glee Of the laughing Satyr tribe. Could toil those brows inscribe ? Is it he ? is it surely he ? Are these the revellers of his train ? Yet surely these have passed through fire, through pain ! Can the Gods also suffer throes, Nor crave to conquer, but repose ? " BACCHANAL OF ALEXANDER 21 The king uplifts his bowl. Peucestas stoops, pours in From a brown fawn's swelling skin The ripe grape's rosy soul. " Pledge us," he cries, and smiles, " Lord of Nysa, to-day ! Have we not toiled our way To a valley of the Blessed Isles ? Drink of a richer boon Than the water we brought thee to taste In the fiery Gedrosian waste When we halted our host at noon, And thou in the sight of all didst spill Those longed-for drops on the darkened sand, — O fill, Remembering how our hearts drank wine From thy refusing deed divine." What hath the king so stirred ? What grief of a great desire Stung by that spoken word ? Sudden as storm his thoughts tumultuous run Back into peril, Indus, Issus, Tyre, And the famed gates of Babylon yet unwon. Far, far those mighty days in glory tower ! A valley keeps him, while the great peaks call. 22 ODES O for that supreme exultant hour, When alone, Achilles-like, he sprang 'Mid the astonished Indians o'er the wail, And a hundred arrows round him rang ! O Alexander, all these thousands own Thy pleasure, but thy throes were thine alone. Dulled is the joy that hath no need to dare ; Match thy great self, and breed another heir To those high deeds, from which thy kindled fame Runs, as the world's hope runs from youth to youth aflame. Climb, climb again to those lone eagle skies, Where Ocean's unadventured circle bends And dragon ignorance girdles the world's ends ! — As fire leaps up a tower, that thought leaps to his eyes. " Off, Maenad mummery," he cries ; his brow Strips of its garland with indignant hands, Starts up, and plants his ringing spear ; and now Soul-flushed through radiant limbs, a man trans- figured stands. With joy the marvelling Carmanians bow, From their long doubting freed : " It is the God," they cry, " the enraptured God indeed ! " ASOKA I GENTLE as fine rain falling from the night, The first beams from the Indian moon at full Steal through the boughs, and brighter and more bright Glide like a breath, a fragrance visible. Asoka round him sees The gloom ebb into glories half-espied Of glimmering bowers through wavering traceries : Pale as a rose by magical degrees Opening, the air breaks into beauty wide, And yields a mystic sweet ; And shapes of leaves shadow the pathway side Around Asoka's feet. O happy prince ! From his own court he steals ; Weary of words is he, weary of throngs. How this wide ecstasy of stillness heals His heart of flatteries and the tale of wrongs ! 23 24 ODES Unseen he climbs the hill, Unheard he brushes with his cloak the dew, While the young moonbeams every hollow fill With hovering flowers, so gradual and so still As though from growing joy the radiance grew, Discovering pale gold Of spikenard balls and champak buds that new Upon the air unfold. He gains the ridge. Wide open rolls the night ! Airs from an infinite horizon blow Down holy Ganges, floating vast and bright Through old Magadha's forests. Far below He hears the cool wave fret On rocky islands ; soft as moths asleep Come moonlit sails ; there on a parapet Of ruined marble, where the moss gleams wet And from black cedars a lone peacock cries, Uncloaking rests Asoka, bathing deep In silence, and his eyes Of his own realm the wondrous prospect reap ; At last aloud he sighs. II " How ennobling it is to taste Of the breath of a living power ! ASOKA 25 The shepherd boy on the waste Whose converse, hour by hour, Is alone with the stars and the sun, His days are glorified ! And the steersman floating on Down this great Ganges tide, He is blest to be companion of the might Of waters and unwearied winds that run With him, by day, by night : He knows not whence they come, but they his path provide. " But O more noble far From the heart of power to proceed As the beam flows forth from the star, As the flower unfolds on the reed. It is not we that are strong But the cause, the divine desire, The longing wherewith we long. O flame far-springing from the eternal fire, Feed, feed upon my heart till thou consume These bonds that do me wrong Of time and chance and doom, And I into thy radiance grow and glow entire ! " For he who his own strength trusts, And by violence hungers to tame 26 ODES Men and the earth to his lusts, Though mighty, he falls in shame ; As a great fell tiger, whose sound The small beasts quake to hear, When he stretches his throat to the shuddering ground And roars for blood ; yet a trembling deer Brings him at last to his end. In a winter torrent falls his murderous bound ! His raging claws the unheeding waters rend ; Down crags they toss him sheer, With sheep ignobly drowned, And his fierce heart is burst with fury of its fear. Ill " Not so ye deal, Immortal Powers, with him Who in his weak hour hath made haste to kneel Where your divine springs out of mystery brim, And carries thence through the world's uproar rude A clear-eyed fortitude ; As mid the blue noon on the Arabian strand The solitary diver, plunging deep, Glides down the rough dark brine with questing hand A S O K A 27 Until he feels upleap Founts of fresh water, and his goatskin swells And bears him upward on those buoyant wells Back with a cool boon for his thirsting land. " I also thirst, O living springs, for you : Would that I might drink now, as when at first Life shone about me glorious and all true, And I abounded in your strength indeed, Which now I sorely need. You have not failed, 'tis I ! Yet this abhorred Necessity to hate and to despise — 'Twas not for this my youthful longing soared, Not thus would I grow wise ! Keep my heart tender still, that still is set To love without foreboding or regret, Even as this tender moonlight is outpoured. " Now now, even now, Sleep doth the sad world take To peace it knows not. Radiant Sleep, wilt thou Unveil thy wonder for me too, who wake ? O my soul melts into immensity, And yet 'tis I, 'tis I ! 28 ODES A wave upon a silent ocean, thrilled Up from its deepest deeps without a sound, Without a shore to break on, or a bound, Until the world be filled. mystery of peace, O more profound Than pain or joy, upbuoy me on thy power ! Stay, stay, adored hour, 1 am lost, I am found again : My soul is as a fountain springing in the rain." — Long, long upon that cedarn-shadowed height Musing, Asoka mingled with the night. At last the moon sank o'er the forest wide. Within his soul those fountains welled no more, Yet breathed a balm still, fresh as fallen dew : The mist coiled upward over Ganges shore ; And he arose and sighed, And gathered his cloak round him, and anew Threaded the deep woods to his palace door. THE DEATH OF TRISTRAM I Tristram lies sick to death ; Dulled is his kingly eye, Listless his famed right arm : earth-weary breath Hath force alone to sigh The one name that re-kindles life's low flame, Isoult ! — And thou, fair moon of Tristram's eve, Who with that many-memoried name didst take A glory for the sake Of her who shone the sole light of his days and deeds, Thou canst no more relieve This heart that inly bleeds With all thy love, with all thy tender lore, No, nor thy white hands soothe him any more. Still, the day-long, she hears Kind words that are more sharp to her than spears. Ah, loved he more, he had not been so kind ! And still with pricking tears 29 30 ODES She watches him, and still must seem resigned ; Though well she knows what face his eyes require, And jealous pangs, like coiled snakes in her mind, Cling tighter, as that voice more earnestly Asks heavy with desire From out that passionate past which is not hers, " Sweet wife, is there no sail upon the sea ? " Tenderest hearts by pain grow oft the bitterest, And haste to wound the thing they love the best. At evening, at sun-set, to Tristram's bed News on her lip she brings ! She comes with eyes bright in divining dread, Hardening her anguished heart she bends above his head. " O Tristram ! " — How her low voice strangely rings ! — " There comes a ship, ah, rise not, turn not pale. I know not what this means, it is a sail Black, black as night ! " She shot her word, and fled. But Tristram cried With a great cry, and rose upon his side. " It cannot be, it cannot, shall not be ! I will not die until mine own eyes see." THE DEATH OF TRISTRAM 31 Despair, more strong than hope, lifts his weak limbs ; He stands and draws deep effort from his breath, He trembles, his gaze swims, He gropes his steps in pain, Nigh fainting, till he gain Salt air and brightness from the outer door That opens on the cliff-built bastion floor And the wide ocean gleaming far beneath. He gazes, his lips part, And all the blood pours back upon his heart. Close thine eyes, Tristram, lest joy blind thee quite ! So swift a splendour burns away thy doubt. Nay, Tristram, gaze, gaze, lest bright Truth go out Ere she hath briefly shone. White, dazzling white, A sail swells onward, filling all his sight With snowy light ! As on a gull's sure wing the ship comes on ; She towers upon the wave, she speeds for home. Tristram on either doorpost must sustain His arms for strength to gaze his fill again. She shivers off the wind ; the shining foam Bursts from her pitching prow, 32 ODES The sail drops as she nears, Poised on the joyous swell ; and Tristram sees The mariners upon the deck ; he hears Their eager cries ; the breeze Blows a white cloak ; and now O'er all the rest, like magic in his ears, A voice, that empties all the earth and sky, Comes clear across the water, " It is I ! " Isoult is come ! Victorious saints above, Who suffered anguish ere to bliss you died, Have pity on him whom Love so sore hath tried, Who sinned yet greatly suffered for his love. That dear renounced love when now he sees, Heavy with joy, he sinks upon his knees. O had she wings to lift her to his side ! But she is far below Where the spray breaks upon the rusted rail And rock-hewn steps, and there Stands gazing up, and lo ! Tristram, how faint and pale ! A pity overcomes her like despair. How shall her strength avail To conquer that steep stair, Dark, terrible, and ignorant as Time, Up which her feet must climb THE DEATH OF TRISTRAM 33 To Tristram ? His outstretching arms are fain To help her, yet are helpless ; and his pain Is hers, and her pain Tristram's ; with long sighs She mounts, then halts again, Till she have drawn strength from his love-dimmed eyes : But when that wasted face anew she sees, Despair anew subdues her knees : She fails, yet still she mounts by sad degrees, With all her soul into her gaze upcast, Until at last, at last . . . What tears are like the wondering tears Of that entranced embrace, When out of desolate and divided years Face meets beloved face ? What cry most exquisite of grief or bliss The too full heart shall tell, When the new-recovered kiss Is the kiss of last farewell ? 34 ODES II Isoult Tristram, is this true ? Is it thou I see With my own eyes, clasp in my arms ? I knew, 1 knew that this must be. Thou couldst not suffer so, And I not feel the smart, Far, far away. But oh, How pale, my love, thou art ! Tristram Tis I, Isoult, 'tis I That thee enfold. I have seen thee, my own life, and yet I die. O for my strength of old ! O that thy love could heal This wound that conquers me ! But the night is come, I feel, And the last sun set for me. Isoult Tristram, 'twas I that healed thy hurt, That old, fierce wound of Morolt's poisoned sword. THE DEATH OF TRISTRAM 35 Stricken to death, pale, pale as now thou wert : Yet was thy strength restored. Have I forgot my skill ? This wound shall yet be healed. Love shall be master still, And Death again shall yield ! Tristram Isoult, if Time could bring me back That eve, that first eve, and that Irish shore, Then should I fear not, no nor nothing lack, And life were mine once more. But now too late thou art come ; Too long we have dwelt apart ; I have pined in an alien home : This new joy bursts my heart. Isoult Hark, Tristram, to the breaking sea ! So sounded the dim waves, at such an hour On such an eve, when thy voice came to me First in my father's tower. I heard thy sad harp from the shore beneath, It stirred my soul from sleep. Then it was bliss to breathe ; But now, but now, I weep. 36 ODES Tristram Shipwrecked, without hope, without friend, alone On a strange shore, stricken with pang on pang, I stood sad-hearted by that tower unknown, Yet soon for joy I sang. For could I see thee and on death believe ? Ah, glad would I die to attain The beat of my heart, that eve, And the song in my mouth again ! Isoult Young was I then and fair, Thou too wast fair and young ; How comely the brown hair Down on thy shoulder hung ! O Tristram, all grows dark as then it grew, But still I see thee on that surge-beat shore ; Thou earnest, and all was new And changed for evermore. Tristram Isoult, dost thou regret? Behold my wasted cheek, With salt tears it is wet, My arms how faint, how weak ! THE DEATH OF TRISTRAM 37 And thou, since that far clay, what hast thou seen Save strife, and tears, and failure, and dismay ? Had that hour never been, Peace had been thine, this day. Isoult Look, Tristram, in my eyes ! My own love, I could feed Life well with miseries So thou wert mine indeed. Proud were the tears I wept ; That day, that hour I bless, Nor would for peace accept One single pain the less. Tristram Isoult, my heart is rent. What pangs our bliss hath bought ! Only joy we meant, Yet woe and wrong we have wrought. I vowed a vow in the dark, And thee, who wert mine, I gave For a word's sake, to King Mark ! Words, words have digged our grave. 38 ODES lsoult Tristram, despite thy love, King Mark had yet thine oath. Ah, surely thy heart strove How to be true to both. Blame not thyself! for woe 'Twixt us was doomed to be. One only thing I know ; Thou hast been true to me. Tristram Accurst be still that day, When lightly I vowed the king Whatever he might pray Home to his hands I'd bring ! Thee, thee he asked ! And I Who never feared man's sword, Yielded my life to a lie, To save the truth of a word. lsoult Think not of that day, think Of the day when our lips desired, Unknowing, that cup to drink ! The cup with a charm was fired THE DEATH OF TRISTRAM 39 From thee to beguile my love : But now in my soul it must burn For ever, nor turn, nor remove, Till the sun in his course shall turn. Tristram Or ever that draught we drank, Thy heart, Isoult, was mine, My heart was thine. I thank God's grace, no magic wine, No purple drop distilled By spells, no wizard art, No charm, could have ever filled With aught but thee my heart. Isoult When last we said farewell, Remember how we dreamed Wild love to have learned to quell ; Our hearts grown wise we deemed. Tender, parted friends We vowed to be ; but the will Of Love meant other ends. Words fool us, Tristram, still. 40 ODES Tristram Not now, Isoult, not now ! I am thine while I have breath. Words part us not, nor vow — No, nor King Mark, but death. I hold thee to my breast. Our sins, our woes are past ; Thy lips were the first I prest, Thou art mine, thou art mine at the last ! Isoult O Tristram, all grows old, Enfold me closer yet ! The night grows vast and cold, And the dew on thy hair falls wet. And never shall Time rebuild The places of our delight ; Those towers and gardens are filled With emptiness now, and night ! Tristram Isoult, let it all be a dream, Those days and those deeds, let them be As the leaves that I cast on the stream And that lived but to bring thee to me ; THE DEATH OF TRISTRAM 41 As the oak-leaves I broke from the bough To float past thy window, and say That I waited thy coming — O now Thou art come, let the world away ! Isoult How dark is the strong waves' sound ! Tristram, they fill me with fear ! We two are but spent waves, drowned In the coming of year upon year. Long dead are our friends and our foes, Old Rual, Brangian, all That helped us, or wrought us woes ; And we, the last, we fall. Tristram God and his great saints guard True friends that loved us well, And all false foes be barred In the fiery gates of hell. But broken be all those towers, And sunken be all those ships ! Shut out those old, dead hours ; Life, life, is on thy lips ! 42 ODES Isoult Tristram, my soul is afraid ! Tristram Isoult, Isoult, thy kiss ! To sorrow though I was made, I die in bliss, in bliss. Isoult Tristram, my heart must break. O leave me not in the grave Of the dark world ! Me too take ! Save me, O Tristram, save ! THE DEATH OF TRISTRAM 43 III Calm, calm the moving waters all the night On to that shore roll slow, Fade into foam against the cliffs dim height, And fall in a soft thunder, and upsurge Forever out of unexhausted might, Lifting their voice below Tuned to no human dirge ; Nor from their majesty of music bend To wail for beauty's end Or towering spirit's most fiery overthrow ; Nor tarrieth the dawn, though she unveil To weeping eyes their woe, The dawn that doth not know What the dark night hath wrought, And over the far wave comes pacing pale, Of all that she reveals regarding nought. — But ere the dawn there comes a faltering tread ; Isoult, the young wife, stealing from her bed, Sleepless with dread, Creeps by still wall and blinded corridor, Till from afar the salt scent of the air Blows on her brow ; and now O what pale space beyond the open door 44 ODES And what dim shadow strike her to despair By keen degrees aware That with the dawn her widowhood is there ? Is it wild envy or remorseful fear Transfixes her young heart, unused to woe, Crying to meet wrath, hatred, any foe, Not silence drear ! Not to be vanquished so By silence on the lips that were so dear ! Ah, sharpest stab ! it is another face That leans to Tristram's piteous embrace, Another face she knows not, yet knows well, Whose hands are clasped about his helpless head, Propping it where it fell In a vain tenderness, But dead, — her great dream -hated rival dead, Invulnerably dead, Dead as her love, and cold, And on her heart a grief heavy as stone is rolled. She bows down, stricken in accusing pain, And love, long-baffled, surges back again Over her heart ; she wails a shuddering cry, While the tears blindly rain, " I, I have killed him, I that loved him, I That for his dear sake had been glad to die. THE DEATH OF TRISTRAM 45 I loved him not enough, I could not keep His heart, and yet I loved him, O how deep ! I cannot touch him. Will none set him free From those, those other arms and give him me ? Alas, I may not vex him from that sleep. He is thine in the end, thou proud one, he is thine, Not mine, not mine ! I loved him not enough, I could not hold My tongue from stabbing, and forsook him there. I had not any care To keep him from the darkness and the cold. O all my wretched servants, where were ye ? Hath none in my house tended him but she? Where are ye now ? Can ye not hear my call ? Come hither, laggards all ! Nay, hush not so affrighted, nor so stare Upon your lord ; tis he ! Put out your torches, for the dawn grows clear. And set me out within the hall a bier, And wedding robes, the costliest that are In all my house, prepare, And lay upon the silks these princely dead, And bid the sailors take that funeral bed And set it in the ship, and put to sea, And north to Cornwall steer. Farewell, my lord, thy home is far from here. 46 ODES Farewell, my great love, dead and doubly dear ! Carry him hence, proud queen, for he is thine, Not mine, not mine, not mine ! " Within Tintagel walls King Mark awaits his queen. The south wind blows, surely she comes to-day ! No light hath his eye seen Since she is gone, no pleasure ; he grows gray ; His knights apart make merry and wassail, With dice and chessboard, hound at knee, they play ; But he sits solitary all the day, Thinking of what hath been. And now through all the castle rings a wail ; The king arises ; all his knights are dumb ; The queen, the queen is come. Not as she came of old, Sweeping with gesture proud To meet her wronged lord, royally arrayed, And music ushered her, and tongues were stayed, And all hearts beat, her beauty to behold ; But mute she comes and cold, Borne on a bier, apparelled in a shroud, Daisies about her sprinkled ; and now bowed Is her lord's head ; and hushing upon all Thoughts of sorrow fall, As the snow softly, without any word ; THE DEATH OF TRISTRAM 47 And every breast is stirred With wonder in its weeping ; For by her sleeping side, In that long sleep no morning shall divide, Is Tristram sleeping; Tristram who wept farewell, and fled, and swore That he would clasp his dear love never more, And sailed far over sea Far from his bliss and shame, And dreamed to die at peace in Brittany And to uncloud at last the glory of his name. Yet lo, with fingers clasping both are come, Come again home In all men's sight, as when of old they came, And Tristram led Isoult, another's bride, True to his vow, but to his heart untrue, And silver trumpets blew To greet them stepping o'er the flower-strewn floor, And King Mark smiled upon them, and men cried On Tristram's name anew, Tristram, the king's strongchampion andgreat pride. Silently gazing long On them that wrought him wrong, Still stands the stricken king, and to his eyes Such tears as old men weep, yet shed not, rise : 48 ODES Lifting his head at last, as from a trance, he sighs. " Beautiful ever, O Isoult, wast thou, And beautiful art thou now, Though never again shall I, reproaching thee, Make thy proud head more beautiful to me ; But this is the last reproach, and this the last Forgiveness that thou hast. Lost is the lost, Isoult, and past the past ! O Tristram, no more shalt thou need to hide Thy thought from my thought, sitting at my side, Nor need to wrestle sore With thy great love and with thy fixed oath, For now Death leaves thee loyal unto both, Even as thou wouldst have been, for evermore. Now, after all thy pain, thy brow looks glad ; But I lack all things that I ever had, My wife, my friend, yea, even my jealous rage ; And empty is the house of my old age. Behold, I have laboured all my days to part These two, that were the dearest to my heart. Isoult, I would have fenced thee from men's sight, My treasure, that I found so very fair, The treasure I had taken with a snare : To keep thee mine, this was my life's delight. And now the end is come, alone I stand, And the hand that lies in thine is not my hand." AM ASIS I " O King Amasis, hail ! News from thy friend, the King Polycrates ! My oars have never rested on the seas From Samos, nor on land my horse's hoofs, Till I might tell my tale." Sais, the sacred city, basked her roofs And gardens whispering in the western light ; Men thronged abroad to taste the coming cool of night : Only the palace closed Unechoing courts, where by the lake reposed, Wide-eyed, the enthroned shapes of Memphian deities ; And King Amasis in the cloistered shade, That guards them, of a giant colonnade, Paced musing ; there he pondered mysteries That are the veils of truth ; For mid those gods of grave, ignoring smile Large auguries he spelled, 4 50 ODES Forgot the spears, the tumults of his youth, And strangled Apries, and the reddened Nile. Now turning, he beheld, Half in a golden shadow and half touched with flame, The white-robed stranger from the Grecian isle, And heard pronounced his name. II " Welcome from Samos, friend ! Good news, I think, thou bearest in thy mien," The king spoke welcoming with voice serene. " How is it with Polycrates, thy lord ? Peace on his name attend ! Would he were here in Egypt, and his sword Could sheathe, and we at god-like ease discourse Of counsel no ignoble needs enforce, And take august regale Of wisdom from the Powers whose purpose cannot fail. I, too, O man of Samos, bred to war, Passed youth, passed manhood, in a life of blood ; But many victories bring the heart no certain good. Would that he too might tease his fate no more, AMASIS 51 And I might see his face In presence of my land's ancestral Powers, — See, from their countenance, what a grandeur beams ! Thou know'st I love thy race ; Bright wits ye have, skill in adventurous schemes ; But deeper life is ours : Fed by these springs, your strength might bless the world. But lo ! The light begins to fade from the high towers. Thy errand let me know." Ill " Thus saith Polycrates : The counsel which thou wrotest me is well ; For, seeing how full crops my granaries swell, How all winds waft me to prosperity, How I gain all with ease, And my raised banner pledges victory, Thou didst advise me cast away what most Brought pleasure to my eyes and seemed of rarest cost. And after heavy thought I chose the ring which Theodorus wrought, My famous emerald, where young Phaethon 52 ODES Shoots headlong with pale limbs through glowing air, While green waves from beneath toss white drops to his hair. A long time, very loth, I gazed thereon ; For this cause, thought I, men most envy me ; I took a ship, and fifty beating oars Bore me far out to sea : I stood upon the poop — but wherefore tell What now is rumoured round all Asian shores ? Say only I did well, Who the world's envy treasured yet in deep waves drowned. Homeward I came, and mourned within my doors Three days, nor solace found." IV Amasis without word Listens, dark-browed : the Samian speaks anew : " Let not the king this thing so deeply rue ; Truly the gem was of imperial price, Nay even, men averred, Coveted more than wealthy satrapies, Nor twenty talents could its loss redeem : Yet hear ! the Gods are more benignant than men dream. AMASIS 53 Thus saith my lord : The moon Not once had waned, when as I sat at noon Within my palace court above the Lydian bay, They led before me with much wondering noise A fisherman ; between two staggering boys Slung heavily a fish he brought, that day Caught in his bursting net, A royal fish for royal destiny ! I marvelled ; but amaze broke deeper yet To recognise Heaven's hand, When from its cloven belly (surely high In that large grace I stand) Dazzled my eyes with light, my heart with joy, the ring Restored ! — Why rendest thou thy robe, and why Lamentest thou, O king?" V " O lamentable news ! " Amasis cried ; " now have the Gods indeed Doom on thy head, Polycrates, decreed ! I feared already, when I heard thy joy Must need stoop down to choose For sacrifice, loss of a shining toy, 54 ODES Searching the suburbs only of content, Not thy heart's home : what God this blindness on thee sent ? Gone was thy ring ; yet how Was thy soul cleared, or thou more greatly thou ? Were vain things vainer, or the dear more dear? Hast thou, bent gazing o'er thy child asleep, Thoughts springing, tender as new leaves ? Deep, deep, Deep as thy inmost hope, as thy most sacred fear, Thou shouldst have sought the pain That changes earth's wide aspect in an hour, Heaved by abysmal throes ! Ah, then our pleasant refuges are vain ; Yet, thrilled, the soul assembles all her power, And cleared by peril glows, Seeing immortal hosts arrayed upon her side ! Blind man, the scornful Gods thy offering slight : My fears are certified." VI Swift are the thoughts of fear. But Fate at will rides swifter far; and lo ! Even as Amasis bows to boded woe, Even as his robe, with a sad cry, he rends, The accomplishment is here. AMASIS 55 The sun that from the Egyptian plain descends, Blessing with holier shade Those strange gods dreaming throned by the vast colonnade, Burns o'er the northern sea, Firing the peak of Asian Mycale, Firing a cross raised on the mountain side ! Polycrates the Fortunate hangs there : The false Orcetes hath him in a snare ; Now with his quivering limbs his soul is crucified ; And in his last hour first He tastes the extremity of loss ; he burns With ecstasy of thirst ; Nought recks he even of his dearest now, Moaning for breath ; no pity he discerns On the dark Persian's brow : Grave on his milk-white horse, in silks of Sidon shawled, The Satrap smiles, and on his finger turns The all-envied emerald. ORPHEUS IN THRACE I DEAR is the newly won, But O far dearer the forever lost ! He that at utmost cost His utmost deed hath done The lost one to recover, and in vain, What shall his heart, his anguished heart, sustain ? Not the warm and youthful sun, Flowers breathing on the bough, Nor a voice, nor music now — Touches of joy, more hard to bear than pain ! These charm not where he is, but only there Where she is gone, who took with her delight, Peace, and all things fair, And left the whole world bare. And O, what far well's fountain shall requite Him who hath drunk so deeply of despair ? Orpheus on a stone-strewn slope hr; 56 High amid the hills of Thrace ORPHEUS IN THRACE 57 Sets to the bleak North his face. He, a traveller from hope, As a bird whose mate is stricken Flies and flies o'er ocean foam Nor endures to seek a home, Seeks a land where no leaves quicken, Where from gorges to the plain Iron-tongued the torrent roars Into troubled streams that strain Eddying under barren shores ; Where thronged ridges darkly rise, Shouldering the storms that sweep Through the winter-loaded skies, When far up in heavens asleep For an hour the clouds unclose : — Throned in peace beyond the bourne Of their moving vapours torn, Glimmer the majestic snows, Whence an eagle slowly sails O'er the solitary vales. Such to Orpheus' pilgrim eyes The unreached far mountains rise. " Come," he groans, " you storms, and scourge me, Dull these inward pangs that urge me Ever into new despair. 58 ODES Make my flesh endure as steel, Let me now the utmost feel, Bring me news of things that bear — Frozen torrents, naked trees That abjure the summer's breeze, — Keen upon this body fall ! O let me feel your fiercest sting or feel no more at all ! " His hand, half-conscious, straying Over the well-loved lyre, Strikes ; frail notes obeying Sadly in air expire. Wingless they falter forth, As the pale large plumes of snow From the dim cloud-curdling North, Unwilling and soft and slow, That fall on the hands and the hair Of Orpheus unheeded, and die, As out of his heart's despair He speaks to his lyre : " Ah, why Would I stir thee from silence now, When silence is far the best ? As of old I touch thee, but thou Unwillingly answerest. Ah, marvellous once was thy power ORPHEUS IN THRACE 59 In the marvellous days of old ! I touched thee, and all hearts heard, And the snake had no thought to devour, And the shy fawn stayed and was bold, And the panther crept near in desire ; And the toppling Symplegades hung To hearken thy strings as I sung, And Argo glanced through like a bird, Like a swallow, to hear thee, my lyre ! And the soul of the dragon was stirred, Till his vast coil slowly stooped From the tree where the Fleece glimmered gold, And his ageless eyelids drooped, And his strength sank, fold by fold ; And only the dim leaves heard, As we stept o'er his coils that were cold. Mighty wast thou indeed ; But O, in my utmost need, My heart thou couldst not quell, My heart that loved too well ! I turned on the brink of the light ; Her hand hung fast in my own ; I was sure as a God in my might ; I gazed ; she grew pale, she was flown. Then the dawn turned back to the night, And I stood in the world alone. 60 ODES Eurydice, could I have loved thee less I had won thee lightly again. But my great joy wrought my wretchedness, And thee, whom I love, I have slain." II • What lights are these that dance, Like fire-flies clustering on the dusk hillside, Mingle and then divide, Swerve and again advance, Peopling the shadows thick, till Rhodope Seems rocking all her towering pines in glee? Maenads of exultant glance, Thracian maidens, Thracian dames, Toss these perilous fair flames. Soon their full tresses roll from neck to knee, Swift as a dark shower in the sunset poured ; Soon panting bosoms from rent robes shine bare ! Thoughts leap in accord, Bright as an unsheathed sword, Tumultuously free, and mad to dare ; And loud they cry on Bacchus, their wild lord. O can cheeks of white and red, Lips that love made tremble often, ORPHEUS IN THRACE 61 Eyes an infant's tears can soften, Alter with a change so dread ? Yea, a deep fire craving fuel, Like the dungeoned fires of Earth, Pants from secresy for birth, Careless if its way be cruel. While from tempest faint they stand, Orpheus mid their riot strays, Silent halts with listless hand And with sorrow-sunken gaze. " Who is this ? " in wrath they cry, " Spectre sprung to mock our glee ! Woe to this pale face, for he Joins our mirth or he shall die ! " — Singer, touch thy magic lyre ! Thou couldst stay them soft and still, Tamed and gentle, to thy will. Ah, in grief is no desire. Grief in stony bonds hath bound him, And these bright forms that surround him With high torches menacing And light spears in restless ring, Seem his own thoughts raging, seem Furies of embodied dream, Furies whom 'tis vain to flee. Alas, he hath for shield and sword 62 ODES Only one defenceless word, " Eurydice, Eurydice ! " To piercing wound and branding flame He answers with that piteous name The world now echoes back alone. " Eurydice ! " his soul flies forth in that beloved moan. Alas, that the hand should deflower The treasure the heart loves best, That the will of an alien power Should blindly the soul have possest ! Proudly our own great woe We accomplish, and laugh to have done. Then strength passes from us ; we know, And we hide our heads from the sun. Behold, as the dawn-flushed air Glimmers on peak and vale, To the pines on the upland bare Come shadowy forms and pale ; Stealing, maiden and mother, By single paths of dread, And wondering each at the other Bend over the piteous dead, And touching those rent limbs, cry, With kisses kneeling low, ORPHEUS IN THRACE 63 In sad affrighted moan, "It was not I!" "Nor I!" What evil God blinded us so To wound our beloved, our delight ? For our dancing thou hadst not a song, And now we have none for thy wrong. Though thy lyre could charm honey from stone, Yet we pitied not thee, our delight ! Nay, thee who couldst heal us alone In our grief, at whose magical boon Peace brooded a dove o'er our pain, And our hearts with the sun and the moon Were at peace, that shall be not again, Nor our hope with the spring be in tune ; Thee, thee, even thee, have we slain ! Woe for the world, woe ! In cherishing fair snow Let us bury thee whom we marred, With the lyre that our flame hath charred. Gentle wast thou as a flower, But careless as thunder were we ; And our tears, that should be as a shower To raise and to foster thee, Drop vainly, and past is our power With that blindness and fury and glee. 64 ODES Yea, the solace we wanted not then in our mirth From our helpless sorrow is taken ; And forever untuned is the beautiful earth, And the home of our hearts is forsaken. AUTUMN MOONRISE Lamp that risest lone From thy secret place, Like a sleeper's face, Charged with thoughts unknown, Strange thoughts, unexpressed In thy brightening beam, Strangeness more than dream Upon earth e'er guessed ! Strange thou gleam'st as some Eastern marble old, Scrawled with runes that hold Histories, yet are dumb. But thy viewless hand Out of whelming night Waves the woods to light, Summons up the land ! 66 ODES Sea, that merged in sky, To its far bound shines ; And thy touch defines Our infinity. Now the murmuring coast Glistens ; rocks are there ; And what most was bare Thou enrichest most. Far through granite caves Diving glide thy beams, Till the dark roof gleams Laced with hovering waves ; O'er the white walls glide, Through the lattice creep, Where the lovers sleep, Bridegroom by his bride. Soft their wakened eyes From a deep bliss gaze On those marvellous rays New from Paradise. AUTUMN MOONRISE 67 In the self-same hour, Whitening Russian plains, On sad exile trains Thou hast also power. No more kindly gloom Veils from them despair : Near and clear and bare They behold their doom. Bowed, they see their own Shadows on the snow, And the way they go, Endlessly alone : Aching, chained, footsore, Through the waste they wind, All their joy behind, Nought but grief before. O thou sleeper's face Whence hast thou this gift So much to uplift, And so much to abase ? 68 ODES Lovers' happier dream, Exiles' heavier pain, Thou on each dost rain Beam on radiant beam. Changed in thy control, Though no leaf hath stirred, Though no breath was heard Lie both world and souL THE BELFRY OF BRUGES KEEN comes the dizzy air In one tumultuous breath. The tower to heaven lies bare ; Dumb stir the streets beneath. Immeasurable sky Domes upward from the dim Round land, the astonished eye Supposes the world's rim. And through the sea of space Winds drive the furious cloud Silent in endless race ; And the tower rocks aloud. Mine eye now wanders wide, My thought now quickens keen. O cities, far descried, What ravage have you seen 69 70 ODES Of an enkindled world? Homes blazing and hearths bare ; Of hosts tyrannic hurled On pale ranks of despair, Who fed with warm proud blood The cause unquenchable, For which your heroes stood, For which our Sidney fell ; Sidney, whose starry fame, Mirrored in noble song, Shines, all our sloth to shame, And arms us against wrong ; Bright star, that seems to burn Over yon English shore, Whither my feet return, And my thoughts run before ; Run with this rumour brought By the wild wind's alarms, Dark sounds with battle fraught, Menace of distant arms. THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 71 O menace harsh, but vain ! For what can peril do But search our souls again To sift and find the true ? Prove if the sap of old Shoots yet from the old seed, If faith be still unsold, If truth be truth indeed ? Welcome the blast that shakes The wall wherein we have lain Slumbering, our heart awakes And rends the prison chain. Turn we from prosperous toys And the dull name of ease ; Rather than tarnished joys Face we the angry seas ! Or, if old age infirm Be in our veins congealed, Bow we to Time, our term Fulfilled, and proudly yield. 72 ODES Not each to each we are made, Not each to each we fall, But every true part played Quickens the heart of all That feeds and moves and fires The many-peopled lands, And in our languor tires But in our strength expands. For forward-gazing eyes Fate shall no terror keep. She in our own breast lies : Now let her wake from sleep ! NOTES Page 23 Asoka. — See Elphinstone's " History of India," vol. i. p. 303. Page 26 As mid the blue noon on the Arabian strand, etc. — "Arab geographers apply to the whole of this tract of coast the expressive name Bahrein, which signifies 'the two waters' ; the distinguishing peculiarity of this coast being the number and copiousness of the fresh-water springs which gush forth from the bottom of the sea. . . . The chief supply of fresh water, both for the mainland and the islands, is furnished by divers, who, on reaching the bottom, hold their goatskins open over the springs, and are quickly carried up by the ascending current." Page 29 The Death of Tristram. — The version of the romance implied in this poem, is the version best known through the Comte de Tressan's popular abridgment. Tristram, going abroad to get his wound healed, is wrecked on the coast of Ireland. He and Isoult fall in love at first sight. Discovered to be the slayer of Morolt, he is banished from Ireland and returns to Cornwall. King Mark, fired by his eloquent de- scription of the beauty of Isoult, finds occasion to make him promise any boon he asks ; and, when he has sworn, bids him bring Isoult to be his bride. The spelling Isoult has been preferred, as best answering to the usual English pronunciation of the name. Page 49 Amasis. — See Herodotus, ii. 172, iii. 40, etc. This poem, The Dryad, Alexander, and Autumn Moonrise appeared in the "Dome"; Asoka in "The Monthly Review" ; and The Belfry of Bruges is reprinted from "Western Flanders" (Unicorn Press, 1899). 73 PRINTED BV MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED EDINBURGH T0 8TRT. THE VINEDRESSER. And other Poems. By T. Sturge Moore. Fcap. Svo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. net. The London Letter. — "He has achieved his difficult feat miraculously. ... A poem written in English in 1899 in which the very spirit of the ancient world resides. It reads like a splendid translation from some richly-coloured Greek original." Literature. — " Something more than minor poetry." RUE. Poems by Laurence Housman. Imp. i6mo, 3s. 6d. net. The Pall Mall Gazette. — " It is poetry, and not merely accom- plished verse. " The Manchester Guardian. — "To us ' Rue' seems memorable, steadfast among the scudding vapours of minor verse." POEMS AT WHITE-NIGHTS. By Gordon Bottomley. 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After 50 Copies of each had been printed (by Way, on hand-made Van Gelder paper), the stones were destroyed. The Prints are all Signed and Numbered Proofs. ^"5, 5s. net. THE DOME. An Illustrated Monthly Magazine and Review of Literature, Music, Architecture, and the Graphic Arts. Fcap. 4to. With many separately printed Plates, is. net. *»*"The Dome" is quite unlike the typical magazine of the day. The Pall Mall Gazette says : " No one of an artistic taste can afford to ignore this unique publication." "The Dome" is also published in Quarterly Volumes, bound in cloth and gilt, 3s. 6d. net ; Seven Volumes are now ready, 25s. net. BELTAINE. Edited by W. B. Yeats. The Organ of the Irish Literary Theatre. Volume I. is now ready, is. net. AT THE SIGN OF THE UNICORN, VII CECIL COURT, LONDON. W.C. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. ID REC'D LD-URl '' -1985 FEB 241985 Form L9-100ni-9,'52(A3105)444 an 3 1158 00996 4403 PR 6003 b5o 'j\A 000 372 764 1 T r lE iJ7ittAi?v