We know them all, Gudrun the strong men's bride, Aslaug and Olafson we know them all, How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died, And what enchantment held the king in thrall When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,Long listless summer hours when the noon Being enamoured of a damask rose Forgets to journey westward, till the moon The pale usurper of its tribute grows From a thin sickle to a silver shield And chides its loitering car - how oft, in some cool grassy fieldFar from the cricket-ground and noisy eight, At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come Almost before the blackbird finds a mate And overstay the swallow, and the hum Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves, Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,And through their unreal woes and mimic pain Wept for myself, and so was purified, And in their simple mirth grew glad again;For as I sailed upon that pictured tide The strength and splendour of the storm was mine Without the storm's red ruin, for the singer is divine;The little laugh of water falling down Is not so musical, the clammy gold Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town Has less of sweetness in it, and the old Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.
Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!
Although the cheating merchants of the mart With iron roads profane our lovely isle, And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art, Ay! though the crowded factories beget The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!
For One at least there is, - He bears his name From Dante and the seraph Gabriel, -Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame To light thine altar; He too loves thee well, Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien's snare, And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,Loves thee so well, that all the World for him A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear, And Sorrow take a purple diadem, Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be Even in anguish beautiful; - such is the emperyWhich Painters hold, and such the heritage This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess, Being a better mirror of his age In all his pity, love, and weariness, Than those who can but copy common things, And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.
But they are few, and all romance has flown, And men can prophesy about the sun, And lecture on his arrows - how, alone, Through a waste void the soulless atoms run, How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled, And that no more 'mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.
Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon That they have spied on beauty; what if we Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon Of her most ancient, chastest mystery, Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!
What profit if this scientific age Burst through our gates with all its retinue Of modern miracles! Can it assuage One lover's breaking heart? what can it do To make one life more beautiful, one day More godlike in its period? but now the Age of ClayReturns in horrid cycle, and the earth Hath borne again a noisy progeny Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth Hurls them against the august hierarchy Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they mustRepair for judgment; let them, if they can, From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance, Create the new Ideal rule for man!
Methinks that was not my inheritance;
For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.
Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away Her visage from the God, and Hecate's boat Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day Blew all its torches out: I did not note The waning hours, to young Endymions Time's palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!
Mark how the yellow iris wearily Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly, Who, like a blue vein on a girl's white wrist, Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night, Which 'gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.
Come let us go, against the pallid shield Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam, The corncrake nested in the unmown field Answers its mate, across the misty stream On fitful wing the startled curlews fly, And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,Scatters the pearled dew from off the grass, In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun, Who soon in gilded panoply will pass Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion Hung in the burning east: see, the red rim O'ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of himAlready the shrill lark is out of sight, Flooding with waves of song this silent dell, -Ah! there is something more in that bird's flight Than could be tested in a crucible! -But the air freshens, let us go, why soon The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!
Poem: RequiescatTread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it.
AVIGNON
Poem: Sonnet On Approaching ItalyI reached the Alps: the soul within me burned, Italia, my Italia, at thy name:
And when from out the mountain's heart I came And saw the land for which my life had yearned, I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:
And musing on the marvel of thy fame I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.
The pine-trees waved as waves a woman's hair, And in the orchards every twining spray Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:
