AUTOGRAPH EDITION

Printed for subscribers only

This Copy is

No. ___________

UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH

UNDERNEATH
THE BOUGH

A BOOK OF VERSES

By
GEORGE ALLAN ENGLAND

THE GRAFTON PRESS
NEW YORK

Copyright, 1903, by
GEORGE ALLAN ENGLAND

This little book is offered to
AGNES
its inspirer, in this the tenth year
of her reign.

I desire to express my sincere thanks to Dr. Titus Munson Coan, Mr. Justo Quintéro and Mr. A. B. Myrick for assistance rendered, and to acknowledge the kind permission to reprint certain of these verses given me by The Literary Digest, Harvard Illustrated Magazine, Vogue, Middletown Forum, Red Letter, Literary Review, Boston Transcript, Town Topics, Smart Set, The New York Herald and other periodicals.

G. A. E.

CONTENTS.

|  | PAGE.
I. | The Race of the Mighty | 1
II. | Songs & Sonnets.
| Love Beatified | 9
| Morning, Noon and Night | 10
| Dante | 11
| Love’s Blindness | 12
| Hesperides | 13
| My Garden | 18
| Erinnerungen | 19
| The Battle Royal | 20
| España | 21
| Love’s Fear | 22
| Longings | 23
| Horace, IV, 8 | 24
| Ricordatevi Di Me! | 26
| The Tower | 28
| Love’s Prayer | 30
| Combien J’ai Douce Souvenance | 31
| My Little Red Devil and I | 33
| The College Pump | 37
| I Disputanti | 38
| Quand Vous Serez Bien Vieille | 39
| One Summer Night | 40
| A Une Fleurette | 42
| Blest Be the Day | 43
| Mignonne Allons Voir Si La Rose | 44
| Religion | 45
| The Great Woods Were Awakening | 46
| I-N-R-I | 47
| Fayre Robyn | 48
| Coeur de Femme | 51
III. | Ballades & Rondeaux
| Ballade of the Sick | 54
| Three Rondeaux from Charles d’Orléans | 56
| The Song of the Poor | 59
| Kyrielle | 62
| Rondeau | 64
| When I First Saw Edmée | 65
| My Old Coat | 66
| A Pantoum | 68
| When Doris Deigns | 70
IV. | The Year
| Spring—May Evening | 72
| Summer—August Rain | 73
| Autumn—November in Cambridge | 74
| Winter—Hampton Holidays | 75
V. | Mors Omnium Victor
| Gunga Din in Hell | 78
| Cui Bono? | 79
| The Bride-Bed | 80
| Dead Loves | 81
| Death the Friend | 82
| La Jeune Fille | 83
| Lucie | 84
| Luctus in Morte Passeris | 89
| Death in December | 90
| The Royal Council | 92
| Carmen Mortis | 93

THE RACE OF THE MIGHTY

The Race of the Mighty[A]

THE START

THE appointed time at length the dials show.

“Attention, both!... Now, are you ready?... Go!!”

The chauffeur grips his lever with a hand

Of steel.—A leap!—A flash of wheels! A grand

And supple beast-like spring!—A growl of gear!

As, sweeping through the multitudinous sea

Of men upraising full-voiced cheer on cheer,

He whirls away to promised victory!...

ON THE ROAD

The high road stretches straight and white

Away

To dreamy distance, on and on—

The day

Dawns sharp and foggy; nips the driver’s

Nose,

Despite his costly furs. Zounds! How

It blows!

The motor purrs!—Our mobile seems

To fly,

Nor touch the ground... (Pneumatic

Mystery!)

The motor purrs!—Farewell wood, field

And stream!

Once on the road, we’ve scanty time

To dream!

The motor purrs!—Look out! A sheer

Decline.

Temptation whispers: Faster here!

It’s fine!

Faster? It’s madness! Yes, I know!—

But on!

Full speed down hill! Another record

Gone!...

The driver plunges out of view...

See, there

He climbs the distant slope again.

I swear

He’d scale Olympus! Yet that course

Is clear

From many mishaps that beset

Us here!

We crush a curséd mongrel in

The dust!

Slow down to miss an English spinster,

Just

Graze by her on her clumsy, ancient

Wheel!—

Rout ducks and chickens, set the pigs

A-squeal!

It’s not our fault! We can’t be kept

All day

To clear the road!... Speed on!—Away!

Away!...

THE STRUGGLE

But hark!... Behind, a trumpet-blast winds clear!

Great God! Our dread competitor draws near;

We’d half a minute start, and now, like Fate,

He’s rushing onward to annihilate

Distance and time, whirled in a hurricane!

Inexorably we see him gain and gain....

“Now!—speed her up!” the boy cries out. “More speed!”

“The curséd motor’s gone to sleep!—Indeed,

“We’re hardly doing fifty miles an hour.

“But he won’t pass us yet awhile! More power!”...

The driver heeds; he moves—the furious pace

Grows frenzied! Oh, the glory of a race

Like this of modern days, with steady hand

To steer a whirlwind through a startled land!

THE WATCHERS

“The first is near!—Let no one cross!—Take care!

“See! There they are!—Look out! The horn! Beware!

“Stand back!—They’re two!... It’s Girardot! No, no;

“It’s Charron! No, it’s Levegh!—How they blow

“That horn!”... But who can hope to recognize

Or name the shrilling bullet in its flight?

And what are names when glory blinds the eyes?

The towns love sport, and cheer; but, half in fright

The laboring peasants stop their ploughs to see

This avalanche—this hurtling mystery!

THE FINISH

Untiring, on their mounts of fire and steel,

The shielded chauffeurs, watchful, hand on wheel,

Have flashed through many a league;—have breathed the dust

Of devious ways; have skirted wood and sea;

Have traversed towns, crossed rivers, hills and dales;—

Nor halted once! To learn geography

By such vast lessons, though it tire the flesh,

Exalts the soul and makes the spirit free.

But now must end this vast, Titanic race!

(It cannot last forever!)—See! The place

Lies there!... A broad, white banner bars the way,

Between two lofty poles with streamers gay.

The “FINISH” there we read. The end at last!

All rest and glory, once that goal is passed!

A final burst!—The driver grips the bar!

The “FINISH!” In the road he sees afar

A judge with solemn air attentive stand,

Waving a crimson kerchief in his hand...

“Stop!” Harshly grinds the brake—“What number’s this?”

“Your name?”

Recorded!

Apotheosis!!

SONGS & SONNETS

Love Beatified.

LOVE, slain by us and buried yesterday,

Rose up again, nor in his grave would stay.

On his earth-stainèd brow and sightless eyes

Still shone the splendours of our Paradise.

Hushed was each dissonance, every fault made clean,

And joys alone I saw, that might have been.

It never seemed our Love could shew so fair

As that dead Presence, shrined in glory there.

I would not have our Love to live again,

And blend each pleasure with his greater pain.—

Oh better far this blessèd death, and rest!

Dead Love I clasp, I cherish to my breast

And ever shall, for this I know is best!

Morning, Noon and Night.

I LOVE thee when the gates of eastern light

Are opened by the Morning-star, aflame;

I love thee when the rose-red heavens proclaim

The coming of their lord, to mortal sight,

And cloudless, when from his imperial height

He looks in glory down. I breathe thy name

With thoughts of love, when drowsy Noon the same

Poised, equal distance holds, twixt dawn and night.

I love thee when the West begins to glow,

And when the restless winds lie still in heaven;

I love thee when the deep’ning shadows fall,

As comes with Tyrian dye, soft, purple even;

But when, from out the waters, rises slow

The noiseless Night, I love thee best of all.

Dante.

THOU’RT but a pensive, dreaming Boy, when first

To thy sad eyne the sight of Love appears

With blessèd Beatrice. Nine circling years

Name thee the wounded Lover, whose sweet thirst

Is never sated, nor whose fever less.

At Campaldino thou’rt the mailèd Knight;

Savage to spur thy City on toward right

Thou’rt driven, its scape-goat, to the wilderness.

There, in the stranger’s house whose stairs are pain

To mount, whose bread is bitter to thy mouth,

Dawns thy Great Vision, mid thy soul’s last drouth;

And, past Hell’s flame and Purgatory’s round,

Greets thee thy love most gentle, once again,

Thou frowning Florentine with laurels crowned!

Love’s Blindness.

“O LOVE, my Love, thou canst not know how sweet,          

How dear thou art!”—“Naught would I know, save this

That thou wilt ever yearn to share my kiss!

So being, I reck not whether years be fleet

Or endless!”—“But thou canst not see thy face

As others see thee! Thy deep eyes that greet

Their lucent-mirrored glimmerings, melt and meet

In glory there, to blind themselves a space!”

“Hush, O my heart! Thy vain hyperbole

Means naught; but take in both thy hands and turn

To thee this face of mine, and kiss my brow,

And after that mine eyes which cannot see

But only feel thy lips that thrill, and now

My mouth, and now—O God! thy kisses burn!”

Hesperides.

I

NOW once again the angry sun

Wheels up the heaven his tireless way;

Once more we strangling herds of men

Wake to our labours never-done,

Rise up to toil another day.

Down flares the heat on town and street,      

Wide-warping pillar, span and plinth;

Once more my burning, wearied eyes

Within this monstrous labyrinth

Meet the mad heat that stifles me,

And O, my baffled spirit flies

In dreams to thy green wood and thee,

To thee!... To thee!...

II

My pavement-wearied feet again

Tread the rough streets whose ways are pain,

Hot with the sun’s last sullen beam,

And yet—I dream!

Dream when I wake, and at high, blinding Noon,

Or when the moon

Mocks the sad City in her sullen night

That burns too bright!

So sweet my visions seem

That from this sordid smoke and dust I turn,

Turn where the dim Wood-world calls out to me

And where the forest-virgins I half see

With green mysterious fingers beckoning!

Where vine-wreathed woodland altars sunlit burn,

Or Dryads weave their mystic rounds and sing,

Sing high, sing low, with magic cadences

That once the wild oaks of Dodona heard;

And every wood-note bids me burst asunder

The bonds that hold me from the leaf-hid bird!

I quaff thee, O Nepenthe! Ah, the wonder

Grows that there be who scorn not wealth and ease,

Who still will choose the street-life, rough and blurred,

Who will not quest you, O Hesperides!...

III

And now, and now... I feel the forest-moss!

O, on these moss-beds let me lie with Pan,

Twined with the ivy-vine in tendrilled curls!

And I will hold all gold that hampers man

But the base ashes of a barren dross!

On with the love-dance of the pagan girls!

The pagan girls with lips all rosy-red,

With breasts up-girt and foreheads garlanded!

With fair white foreheads nobly garlanded!

With sandalled feet that weave the magic ring

Now ... let them sing,

And I will pipe a song that all may hear,

To bid them mind the time of my wild rhyme!

Away! Away! Beware our mystic trees!

Who will not quest you, O Hesperides?...

IV

Great men of song, what sing ye? Woodland meadows?

Rocks, trees and rills where sunlight glints to gold?

Sing ye the hills adown whose sides blue shadows

Creep when the westering day is growing old?

Sing ye the brooks where in the purling shallows

The small fish dart and gleam?

Sing ye the pale green tresses of the willows

That stoop to kiss the stream?

Or sing ye burning streets and sweating toil

Where we spawned swarms of men, unendingly,

Above, below, in mart and workshop’s moil

Have quite forgot thee, O mine Arcady?...

My Garden.

With a copy of “Sonnets of this Century.”

THIS little book, a Garden where the bloom

And fragrance of an hundred years are pent,

To thee, dear girl, at Christmas-tide is sent

By one who breathes with love the sweet perfume

Of such frail flowers. Let aye the world consume

Itself with toil and labour—such are all

Without the bounds of this my garden-wall,

And I, in light, feel not nor heed their gloom.

Come thou into my Garden! Let me show

Thee all the treasures that do lend it grace,

These goodly Sonnets, standing in a row

To tell of joy, tears, love,—life’s madrigal;

And, mistress of the pure enchanted place,

Be thou the fairest Flower among them all!...

Erinnerungen.

SCHWER ist mein Herz, und heute kann ich nicht

Mehr lesen—kann nicht denken, leiden mehr.

Aus jeder Ecke kommt ein Schatten her,

Wie aus dem toten Himmel geht das Licht.

Ich sinn’ und sinn’—ich sehe ihn noch, wie er

Vor langen Jahren zartlich schaut’ mich an

Eh’ unsere reine Liebe erst begann

Langsam zu sterben, ich zu trauern sehr...

Schwer ist mein Herz. Aus seinen Ecken auch

Kriechen die Schatten, schnell und schneller. Jetzt

Vernimmt mein müdes Ohr den ersten Hauch

Der Winternacht ... Es glimmert Strom und Wald

In dunkler Ferne ... Dies vergeht zuletzt,

Und alles endlich finster ist und kalt...

The Battle Royal.

THOU Battle Royal! Kings and gentlemen

At arms, and lords have fought thee since the mists

Of time, back-rolling, show’d thy mimic lists

And pigmy warriors, mazed and harried then

As now in meshes of thy checkered strife—

Unshielded Pawns, trim Knights and frowning Rooks

Stolid yet quick, and Bishops smug, with looks

A-squint, and King with lame yet endless life.

Thou Battle Royal! Years unnumbered soil

Cards, draughts and dice with myriad grime-worn hands.

Thou, lov’d by dames and lords in all the lands

Of this broad world art still the world’s best play;

Where, as in life, whilst others struggle, toil,

And die, the imperious Queen controls the day!

España.

“Que era, decidme, la nación que un día

Reina del mundo proclamó el destino?...”

Quintana—Oda a España.

WHERE now that Nation proud which Destiny

Once did proclaim this world’s all conquering queen?

Where now that sceptre, that bright blazon seen

That mark’d her mistress over land and sea?

A lost emprise, a shattered galleon she,

Sails rent and hull agape that once have been

World-powerful; her rotting masts careen

With each dark surge of long-pent enmity.

On through sea’s salty wastes the tempests spurn,

The waves rebuff her; lights no more there gleam                  

Nor vergies wave on her high carven beam.

Stilled is the sailor’s jest, the skipper’s song;

In swirling fogs of night she drives along

With Helmsman Death stark-frozen at the stern!...

Love’s Fear.

VIRGIN art thou and pure, amid a throng

Of such sweet hallowed names as all men praise.

(Grown all too scant in these our latter days!)

To holy hours of old dost thou belong;

Saint Agnès then had heard thine even-song,

Nor left thee, darkling, in Earth’s devious ways.

Thou’rt one with that sweet sisterhood which raise      

To “untouched Dian,” all clear streams along,

Their full-voiced anthem. Thou a Vestal art

At true-love’s altar. Atala, and the Maid,

And Mary all are sisters of thy blood!

Thy very name is virgin!... I, afraid,

How shall I press my kisses on thy heart,

Or loose the girdle of thy maidenhood?...

Longings.

“... Nessun maggior dolore

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Nella miseria...”

Inferno, V, 121.

FAR from the sea-girt City that I love,

My wandering ways by care attended lie;

Cold is the azure of this foreign sky,

And strange these clustered stars that burn above.

Out from this loveless land would I remove

To seek thy spring Pierian, never-dry,

Thou thrice-crowned City! Hear my fainting cry.

Let not my passionate longing fruitless prove!

Would I once more might see the dome of gold

Burning aloft, beneath my native sky!

The river, winding near my home of old,

And once again to breathe before I die,

The evening breeze, may it be granted me,

In that fair city by the distant sea!...

The Eighth Ode of the Fourth Book of Horace.

To C. Martius Censorinus.

“Donarem pateras grataque commodus...”

FREELY to my companions would I give

Beautiful bronzes, Censorinus, bowls

And tripods, once a guerdon to the souls

Of hardy Greeks; nor should’st thou bear away

The meanest of my gifts, could I but live

Possessed of arts like those Parrhasius plied,

Or Skopas, now depicting human clay

And now a god, in liquid colors one

In solid stone the other. But denied

To me are equal powers; need hast thou none

In mind or state for treasures like to these.

Thou dost delight in songs, and such are mine

To give, and fix a value to each song.

Not marbles carved with public elegies,

Whence to illustrious leaders still belong

In dreamless death their praises half divine,

Not the precipitate flights of Hannibal

Nor those retorted threats that wrought him shame,

Not impious Carthage and her flaming fall

More highly show, than the Calabrian Muse,

Glories of him who, having gained a name

From prostrate conquered Africa, returned.

Neither if writings should perchance refuse

To herald forth what thou so well hast earned

Wouldst thou have fitting praise. What were the son

Of Mars and Ilia, if in jealousy

Silence had drowned those lofty merits won

By Romulus? Through eloquence, through strength

And favor of all poets loved of fame,

Aeacus hallowed is, from Stygian floods,

To the fair Islands of the Blest at length.

The Muse forbids the worthy man to die;

She blesseth him with Heaven. Thus Hercules,

Untiring victor, finds a place on high

At Jove’s desired feasts. Tyndareus’ sons,

Clear-shining stars, thus from the deepest seas

Rescue the shattered ships. Thus Bacchus fair,

Twining his temples with fresh vine-leaves green,

To fruitful issue brings the votaries’ prayer.

Ricordatevi Di Me!

(Terza Rima.)

IF ever thou shouldst cease to think of me

With love, and turn thy soul’s sweet warmth to ice—

(Stop not my mouth with kisses! Change may be,

As all do know who take for their device

A bleeding heart!)—If any change should seal

To me the gates of uttermost Paradise,

And I should darkling fare, with no repeal,

In company of them, that, love forsaken,

Before cold shrines and at dead altars kneel,

Remember this—I bade thy heart awaken;

Here in this hand it lay a prisoner!

Thy first wild love-kiss from my lips was taken,

And with my breath thy first sighs mingled were!

Remember this—I loved thee well and long,

Thou haven to me, a time-worn wanderer!

Then, though my voice be drowned in that clear song

Of thy new love, and I forgotten be

Or all-despisèd, think thou in my wrong

Some good there was, some truth akin with thee,

Some light half-seen, since I could tune a soul

Virgin as thine to perfect harmony,

And crown thy brow with Love’s pure aureole!

The Tower.

I

THERE lies a City of Unnumbered Dead

Where paths entwine, where hills and valleys be,

And still, black pools; the cypress mystically

Shrouds those dark ways. There living souls may tread

With but slow steps and rare. With slow steps, led

By Love two lovers passed; they spake, and she

Cast down her mystic eyes lest he might see

In their vague depths the image of her dread.

A great round-tower of granite crowns that land.

Thither they came, and now her starry eyes

Were raised to his; that dread which wrought them ill

Behind them with the frozen dead lay chill.

Up the enchanted stairway hand in hand

They passed, and issued forth to see the skies.

II

And yet their sweetest moment did not seem

That dizzying issue into tenuous light,

Where the keen salt-sea wind that lashed their height

Drowned their love-quickened breath as in a stream

Of chill, on-rushing æther; not the gleam

Of multitudinous Ocean, nor the bright

Expanse of Earth could draw their dazzled sight

From the new glory of their passionate dream.

It was upon the tower’s midmost stair

At one dim diamond-window; both beguiled

Paused in the gloom; she trembled like a child;

His hot mouth found her mouth, her gold-twined hair,

And in her milk-white breast her heart beat wild

Beneath one burning kiss he printed there.

Love’s Prayer.

WHEN thy ripe lips in kisses mould to meet

Mine eager mouth—when thy full pulsing throat

Throbs with thy quickening life-breath—when the float

And tangle of thine ungirt hair, oh Sweet,

Entwines us, breast to breast, the perfumed heat

Of each wild sigh fans all my face aflame,

And beat to beat our passionate hearts the same

Responses cry, as we Love’s creed repeat.

When in each other’s arms, love-wearied, we

Both nested safe in silken cushions warm

At Winter-evenfall entrancèd lie,

Kissing but closer as we list the storm,

Then pray we, midst our sweet antiphony

But this—that love like ours may never die!...

“Combien J’ai Douce Souvenance...!”

(After Chateaubriand)

OH sweet, how sweet old memories be

Of one most lovely place, to me—

My birthplace! Sister, fair those days

And free!

Oh France, be thou my love, my praise

Always!

Our mother—hath thy memory flown?—

Beside our humble chimney-stone

Pressed us against her heart, whilst you,

Dear one,

And I her white hair kissed anew,

We two.

Sweet little sister, dost recall

The stream that bathed the castle-wall?

The old round-tower whence came alway

The call

Of bells to banish night away

At day?

Dost thou recall the lake—how still!—

Where swallows skimmed at their sweet will?

The reeds, swayed by the gentle air

Until

The sun set on the waters there,

So fair?

Oh, who will give me my Helène?

My mountains, my great oak again?

Their memory brings with all my days

Fresh pain;

My land shall be my love, my praise

Always!

My Little Red Devil and I.

“The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman.”

Twelfth Night.

MY little Red Devil upon my desk

With a smile sardonic stands.

He holds my pen with a patient air

In his crooked, outstretched hands;

The paint is worn from his hoof and horn

And scratched is his curving tail,

Yet he still holds on with a right good grace,

A knowing look on his crafty face,

And spirits that never fail.

So, what if his fingers are some of them gone,

And twisted the horns on his head?

His cheek still glows, and his aquiline nose

Is a genuine devilish red;

And his tail, beside, is a thing of pride,

For it swings in a glorious sweep,

With a graceful bend and a fork in the end

That would cause a sinner his ways to mend,

Or a saint, his vows to keep!

Though only a single eye has he

The world and the flesh to view,

(For the right is gone,) yet the other one

Has fire enough for two.

So his eyes ill-mated an air jocund

To his wrinkled features lend,

And to see his look you would almost think

That he was tipping a devilish wink

To his old, familiar friend.

Oh, he is a jolly good fellow, in truth,

With a wit that is ever new,

And a heart like which, in this world of ours,

There are only, I fear, too few.

And he doesn’t complain when I come in late

Or keep him awake o’ nights,

So I have respect for his comfort, too,

By giving the Devil his utmost due,

And the whole of his royal rights.

To everyone else but myself his smile

Is fixed as the solid stone;

He changes the curve of his parted lips

For me, and for me alone.

So when I’m in luck he wishes me joy

With his whole Satanic heart,

But when I’ve the blues, it seems he would say

“Brace up, for the luck will be better some day!”

And my cares like the wind depart.

So my Devil and I are the best of friends

In a sort of a cynical way,

For he watches me out of his only eye

As I work at my desk each day,

And the idle verses I write in hope,

He quietly smiles to see,

For he knows full well that at first or last,

Like Biblical bread on the waters cast,

They will surely come back to me...

And at night, as I sit by the ruddy hearth,

With my pipe and my book, alone,

Or lazily muse by the embers red

When the light of the fire is gone,

I think of him sometimes, and hope in my heart

I never shall see the day

That sets me adrift from my little friend

And puts to our sociable life an end,

By taking my Devil away!...

The College Pump.

IN Summertide, beneath high-vaulted shade,

In Winter, frosted all with glistering rime,

In chanting Spring, or Autumn’s sullen time

When sodden leaves their tawny beds have made—

Alike when spendthrift Sun his gold afar

Downthrows, or earth lies shrouded all in cold,

By evil men and good, by young, by old,

In every season blessed thy waters are.

Grandsires and children drink with solaced eyes.

Dazed revellers early come with thirsty shame

Beneath gray glimmering of the sober skies.

All day men pause; and some, at eventide,

Poets, have hallowed with their touch thy name,

And with their lips thy waters sanctified.

I Disputanti.

LA MIA RAGIONE sento disputare

Col Core sempre—“Dopo crudel Morte,”

L’una dice, “con la sua man si forte

Il lume della vita spegni, io andare

Nel Buio credo...” L’altro poi; “Amare

È non morir. Il mio alto Fattore

Non puo voler che questo dolce fiore

Del mio affetto muoia...” “Io parlare

Del ‘Credo’ tuo non so; ma non c’è vita            

Futura non c’è Dio. La Cagione

È l’Caso, solamente...” “È l’Amore,

L’Amore, quella via giammai smarrita,

Perduta mai...” Sempre così col Core

Io sento disputar la mia Ragione...

“Quand Vous Serez Bien Vieille...”

Ronsard.

THOU (being sometime old), by candlelight

Close crouched by the fire, spinning and mumbling o’er

The past, shalt croon my verses, marvelling more

That Ronsard sang thy praise, what time thy bright

First beauty was. Then, hearing thee recite

Such thing, thy drowsy maid, though weary-sore

And nodding off to sleep, shall wake before

My name and thine, with blessings infinite.

I under earth shall be, a soul in vain

Seeking its rest where myrtle shadows play;

Thou by the hearthstone cringe, outworn and blear,                

My love regretting and thy cold disdain.

Live! an thou hear’st me! Wait no other day!

Gather life’s roses ere thy night be near!

One Summer Night.

The Fens, June, 1897.

FAR in the west the crescent moon hung low,

A filmy haze about it faintly spread,

And one bright star, a point of silver light

Seem’d comrade to it. Whispering Zephyrus

Tender as love, stole through the list’ning leaves,

Making a pleasant murmur in the night,

And touched the glimmering waters with his breath.

The ripples came unnumbered to the shore,

Soft-murmuring through the sedge and fenny reeds

With that same whisp’ring voice that Pan once heard

What time he first made pipes to sound the praise

Of her whom he had lost. The water’s breast

Was banded with a path of shimmering light

Broken by the ever-restless waves, which made

A thousand points of liquid brilliancy.

And in the beauty of still, hallowed night

Beside the plashing sandy shore, we met

In happiness. Each whispering of the wind,

Each tremulous leaf, and even the sleeping flowers

Seem’d breathing “Love” in tender unison,

And the sphered star in Heaven sang that word.

Dost thou remember how from out the grass,

I plucked a gentle flow’ret by that shore,

—Anemone some call it, wind-flower some,

Sprung from the crimson of Adonis’ blood

Where he was slain,—and how I softly said,

“O thou belovèd, beauty is a rose

Growing in Life’s fair garden, by the spring

Of deathless Purity, and that clear dew

Which lies within its sweetness hid, is Love.”

Dost thou recall? And so it chance, I pray

Though we be parted, now and evermore,

Think sometimes of that night, and fancy still

We see the summer landscape, glimmering,

Lit by the steady-burning lights of heaven,

We scent the sweetness of the warm young night,

We hold the tender wind-flower, and still hear

The murmuring ripples on the sounding shore.

A Une Fleurette

FLEURETTE! Sur sa poitrine si blanche et belle

Combien sens-tu de joie! Quel insensé bon heur

Que de t’y prélasser doucement toute une heure!

Sur ses seins arrondis, là, serrée tout contre elle,

Tu respires son être. Une volupté telle

Que moi j’en sentirais, là, si près de son coeur,

Sur ces deux petits monts de neige, heureuse fleur

Tu ressens... Ta mort, même, ô fleurette, est un ciel!

Dieu! Que je suis las de tout ce monde de peine

Et de ses vanités et de ses maux! Toujours

Te veut mon âme inquiète. Donne-moi ô Reine

Du royaume désert de mon coeur, mes amours,

Comme à cette fleurette ta poitrine aimée

Pour y dormir toujours, à toute éternité!...

Blest Be the Day.

The XXXIXth Sonnet
of Petrarch
to his Lady Laura.

He blesseth all the divers causes and effects of his love toward her.

BLEST be the day, the season and the year

The hour and moment, and the countrie fair,

Ay, even that very spot and instant where

Those two sweet eyne did first to me appear

Which since have left me—yet that sorrow dear

Of Love still blessèd be, like as the bow

And shafts wherewith sweet Love did work me woe

With wounds most deep in this my bosom here.

Blest be the many voices wherewithal

I on my Lady’s well-belovèd name

Have called, and blest the sighs, the tears, the flame

Of my desire, and all my screeds designed

To praise her—yet most blest my thoughts I call,

So hers that none but she may entrance find...

“Mignonne Allons Voir Si La Rose....”

After Ronsard.

COME, sweet, away! Come see the rose,

Now that the day draws near its close,

See whether it be faded grown—

Whether at evening fall away

Those leaves that opened to the day,

Or dies their blush, so like thine own.

Thou seest, dear love, its beauties pass,

Its wasted petals fall, alas!,

In one short hour. It may not bide.

Unkind in truth is Mother Earth

Since dawn gives such a flower its birth

And Death draws nigh at eventide.

So, sweet my darling, hear my voice,

I bid thee, in thy youth, rejoice!

Before thy fragile petals close

Gather thy blossoms whilst thou may,

With time they fall and fade away

As droops at night the withered rose.

Religion.

FROM that crude savage who, on Libyan sands,

Graves his barbaric god, and kneels thereto;

From those mysterious, matriarchal bands,

Eating strange flesh their spirit to renew

With fabled ancestors; from Austral lands

To Hyperborean solitudes, each age

Hath sought to fend its head from God’s dull rage

And stay the cosmic circling with clasped hands.

Yea, we no less! Doth man dare look away

Bravely as fits a man? With fear-sealed eyes,

Filling the spheres with vast, vague mysteries,

Man still must hearken some great angel’s wing,

Still bow to man-made God, still seek to stay

With claspèd hands the cosmic circling...

The Great Woods Were Awakening.

“Les grands bois s’éveillaient; il faisait jour à peine...”

Pradel.

THE great woods were awakening. A new day

Was freshly born; enchanted birds among

The clear green foliage raised their matin song

To praise the morning-glow. Thought-sad I lay

Beneath a gnarlèd oak; despite that gay

Fresh springtide, all my soul was suffering.

I waited her, and lo! the rapid wing

Of fluttering footsteps brushed the dew away.

Drunken with pleasure in a long-locked kiss

Our breath enmingled. Tightening in my arms

That beautiful, supple form, her heart’s alarms

I stifled on my heart. The thicket drew

Close over us, the sun grew dark, I wis,

Earth faded, Heaven opened to our view...

I-N-R-I.

WITH bleeding brows beneath a thorn-meshed crown,

With swollen hands fast bound in leathern thong,

I saw One stand amid a surging throng

That spat on Him and strove to drag Him down.

On His bowed back the ridg’d welts scarlet lay

Traced long with bloody dew. His haggard face

Was streaked with sweat and blood, as in that place

He silent stood and silent gazed away.

Once more that One I saw, still garlanded

With mocking thorns. Through either bleeding hand

And through both patient feet a mangling nail

Was driven deep. Some cursed, some laughed, cried “Hail,

God crucified!...” And some crouched low in dread

And wept, and thunderous darkness filled the land...

Fayre Robyn.[B]

FAYRE ROBYN he rad owre the brae,

Hys steede he was a wighty browne;

The countrie a’ lay at hys back,

Hys eyen were to the toune.

Bauld Robyn owre the brae did ride,

Nor yet a Horde nor yerle was he,

But mae than ony nobleman

Hys fayreness was to see.

And Robyn rad adoun the brae,

And cam yth High Strete;

A gentil pace hys horse hadde

Whych was baith goode and meete.

The Shyreff’s dauter sate yth wane

And luikt out o’ the window round,

Therebye Robyn rad and sang,

A braw and pleasant sound.

She luikt upon hys goodely forme

He luikt a’ in hir deepe blue yee;

Robyn doft hys bonnet; a rose to hym

She dropit for replye.

Leeve may o meete me bye the yett,

And a’ taegither we will flie.

I’ll meete thee when the nyghte be com,

So ryde again soone bye.

She’s met hym when the nyghte was com,

And a’ taegither they hae fled,

Now gin the Shyreff com, most sure

They maun baith be dead.

The hae na gane a league, a league,

A league nor barely ane,

When Robyn saith now by my bloode

They’re reasin a’ the toon.

They hae na gane anither league,

A league nor barely twa,

When they do heare a not ffar off

Some bernes that them pursue.

The be com unto a great roke;

Ye faith it was baith deepe and wide.

The Shyreff’s bernes byn sonygh

The maun plunge them in the tyde.

They’ve plunged them in the cauld water,

The spait was ful swift bye;

Now byr Ladye, quoth the may,

Methinks we baith maun dee.

They’ve plunged them into the cauld roke;

The hors they rade sank doun.

A’ yth black water then

The baith were neere to droune.

He bare hir firme in hys left arme

And swam a’ wi’ his right:

When the cam to yearth againe

The bernes byn in sight.

The bernes rad the roke along

And saw Robyn’s bonnet on the tide.

Now be the baith to bottom gane,

Ther may the bide!

The Shyreff turned him home again,

Turned back and went awaie,

But Robyn and His Ladye ffayre

Were wed the nextin daye.

Coeur de Femme.

I CANNOT think that woman love as we

Love them, with soul and body, breath and blood,

And spent soul tortured in the strangling flood

Of passion’s tense oblivious agony;

I cannot think the kiss She gives to me

Thrills her white body as it pulses mine,

Or in Love’s chalice of ambrosial wine

She drowns all things which were or are to be.

We please them with our smile, for they are vain

And Love a flatterer is; they joy to fling

A rose-entwinèd leash about their slave;

Purple and gold they take, and winnowed grain

Of gems from Hesperus’ isle,—all men will bring;      

But Love—lies bleeding by a woman’s grave!

BALLADES & RONDEAUX

Ballade of the Sick.

CAN these be men, that lie so still, so white?

Whose hopeless eyes yearn things they cannot say?

Who scarce can part the daytime from the night

Save that the night drags heavier than the day?

Have these a listening God, to whom they pray?

God hears not such, nor cares, right well know I,

For nameless things I learn through long delay,

On this strait bed where I perforce must lie.

I learn of life-in-death; I learn the blight

Of seeing my soul and body slow decay,

Hemmed in with white-walled nothingness. The flight    

Of vagrant flies, the sunlight’s sluggish way

Of crawling on—yes, even the shadows gray

Help tease the laggard moments loathly by.

Since great are none, small things my pain allay

On this strait bed where I perforce must lie.

I learn to see, nor shrink from any sight.

That deathmask yonder—carrion mass of clay—

Hath but a bleeding scrap of lung, to fight

The ghastly death that knows nor truce nor stay.

The Polack, old through pains that tear and flay,

Will go next sennight—how these swart folk die!

Last week they found one, waxen-cold for aye,

On this strait bed where I perforce must lie.

ENVOY

“This too will pass!” my comfort be alway.

Hell is forgot of them that chant on high;

Yet have I seen such things no man should say,

On this strait bed where I perforce must lie...

Three Rondeaux from Charles d’Orléans.

I.
LE TEMPS A LAISSIÉ SON MANTEAU.

YE TIME hath lefte his mantle fall

Of biting windes and cold and rain,

And well hath dight himself again

In sunlight shining cleare on all;

Creatures be none, nor birds, but call

One to another their own refrain:

Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall

Of biting windes and cold and rain.

Fountaines and brooks moste musical

Their fayrest dress to wear be fain;

With silvern drops and golde, amain,  

Each newlie decks hymself withall;

Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall.

II.
DIEU! QU’IL LA FAIT BON REGARDER!

Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze,

All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien;

Such virtues be in her y-seen

All men stand ready with their praise.

Who then could weary of her ways?

Her beautie flowereth ever green;

Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze,

All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien.

This side or yon of Ocean’s maze

Nor dame nor damozel, I ween

So wholly parfaict yet hath been—

A dream, to think on her always:

Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze!...

III.
LES FOURRIERS D’ESTE SONT VENUS.

Ye maides in waiting all be here

Of Summertide, to deck her hall,

To hang her arras, woven all

With golden flowers and verdure clear;

To stretch her carpet far and near

Of soft green moss o’er stone and wall;

Ye maides in waiting all be here

Of Summertide, to deck her hall.

Hearts that but late were cold and drear

Now (prais’d be God!), their joy recall;

Come, come away, with snow-wrapped pall!

Out on thee, Winter, old and blear!

Ye maides in waiting all be here...

The Song of the Poor.

“O Rois qui serez jugés à votre tour.”

Banville.

O KINGS, who must yourselves be judged one day,

Think of the wretched poor that ever stand

On Famine’s edge, and pity them! They pray

For you and love you; drudging till your land,

And, toiling, fill your coffers—they withstand

Your enemies; yet damned on earth they fare,

Woe infinite and endless pain they bear;

Not one there is but knows the keen distress

Of cold, of heat, and rain and ceaseless care,

For to the poor all things are bitterness.

Even as a beast of burden, scourged amain,

The wretched peasant lives his hopeless life.

Does he but pluck his grapes, or dare refrain

An hour from drudging toil, and choose a wife

To share the sorrow of his unequal strife,—

His lord, a savage bird of prey, draws nigh;

Relentless comes, and, saying “Here am I!”

Seizes what little he may chance possess.

Nothing avails the vassal’s pleading cry,

For to the poor all things are bitterness.

Pity the wretched jester in your halls!

Think on the fisher when the black waves curl

Their frothing tongues, and crackling lightning falls

On his frail boat! Pity the blue-eyed girl,

Lowly and dreaming, as her young hands whirl

The droning wheel! Think of a mother’s pain

And torment, as she weeps and seeks in vain,

Holding her fair dead child in blind distress,

To warm its cold heart back to life again.

O, to the poor all things are bitterness.

ENVOI.

Mercy for these thine own, oh Prince, I cry!

Peace to thy vassal ’neath his darkened sky,

Peace to the pale nun, praying passionless,

And to all such as lowly live and die—

For to the poor all things are bitterness.

Kyrielle.

NAY, not for me the toil and strife

Of ’Change, of war, of public life—

Than go with Fame, I’d rather stay

With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.

A little garden?... Well, perchance,

If weedless flowers, self-raising plants

Would grow therein, where I might stray

With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.

Horses and dogs?... Yes, I’d not mind

Were I but ever sure to find

An hour of peace, at close of day

With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.

Travel?... Of course! The Frank might stare,

The Russian rave, the Turk despair;

I none the less would them survey

With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.

But homeward-longing ever, I

Still for our low-built house would sign,

Where I might peaceful be for aye

With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.

Old books and many, pipe not new,

Edmée all mine, forever, too,

I’d love them all till I were grey,

But best and dearest, dear Edmée!...

Rondeau.

THY breast, dear Doris, ever be

All-hallowed, consecrate to me,

A rest where this my heart may go

Whatever tempests beat and blow;

A shelter that my soul may see

Though all the world speak grievously.

Warmed in its softness, dear, by thee,

My love shall sometime come to know

Thy breast.

And sometime, too, so reverently

Thou couldst not, Sweet, refuse my plea.

I’ll kiss the dimple that I know

Betwixt those little hills of snow

Waits, till my lips press passionately

Thy breast!...

When I First Saw Edmée

(Villanelle.)

WHEN I first saw Edmée

She was clad all in blue.

A cold colour, you say?

Yes, I thought so, that day,

And my hopes were but few

When I first saw Edmée;

Now, of azure array

I’ve quite altered my view—

A cold colour, you say?

Is the sky cold in May?

How little I knew,

When I first saw Edmée.

All the sweetness there lay

In the shade that means “true!”...

A cold colour, you say?

Ah, my heart’s quite away.

The sad moment I rue

When I first saw Edmée.

A cold colour, you say?...

My Old Coat.

“Sois-moi fidèle, ô pauvre habit que j’aime.”

Béranger.

BE ever true to me, thou well-loved coat,

For we are growing old together now,

These ten long years I’ve brushed thee every day

Myself; great Socrates the Sage, I trow

Had not done better! And if remorseless Fate

Gnaw with sharp tooth that poor, thin cloth of thine,

Resist, say I, with calm philosophy,

Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine!

How I recall—(for even now I’m bless’d

With a good memory!), that glad day of days

When first I wore thee! It was at my feast;

My friends to crown my glory, sang thy praise.

Thy poverty and age that honor me

Have not yet made their early love decline—

They’re ready still to feast us once again.

Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine!

Have I perfumed thee with those floods of musk,

Which the vain fop exhales before his glass?

Have I exposed thee, waiting audience,

To scorn and laughter of the great who pass?

Just for a paltry ribbon, all fair wide France

Was rent apart, but simply I combine

A few sweet wild-flowers for thine ornament.

Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine!...

Fear nevermore those days of struggling vain,

When the same lowly destiny was ours;

Those days of pleasure intermix’d with pain,

Of sunny sky o’ercast by April showers.

Soon comes the night, for evening shadows fall,

And soon forever must I my coat resign.

Wait yet a little, together we’ll end it all,

And never part, thou dear old friend of mine!...

A Pantoum.

HERE I must lie on my bed,

Longing for health again.

Crazy thoughts whirl in my head,

Mix with that endless pain.

Longing for health again—

Dreams of walking once more

Mix with that endless pain.

Lying in bed is a bore!

Dreams of walking once more,

After these months of repression,

Lying in bed is a bore

Past any means of expression!

After these months of repression,

To wander, and study, and revel...

Past any means of expression,

Pain, you’re a villainous devil!

To wander, and study, and revel,

To eat, drink, and live like a man...

(Pain, you’re a villainous devil!...)

With never a doctor to ban—

To eat, drink, and live like a man,

To wander in meadow and wood,

With never a doctor to ban

Those things that I know to be good...

To wander in meadow and wood,

With Someone, enjoying October,

Those things that I know to be good,

The sky, be it sunny or sober.

With Someone, enjoying October,

To see the gay trees and the hills,

The sky, be it sunny or sober,

With a curse on all doctors and pills...

To see the gay trees and the hills,

Hope is quick faded and fled.

With a curse on all doctors and pills,

Here I must lie on my bed!...

When Doris Deigns.

WHEN Doris deigns to gaze on me

All happy thoughts be mine;

Her eyes are two twin stars, I wis,

Bright in my soul they shine;

No earth-born flower one half so fair

As she, no joy can aught compare

With my sweet fire of love, perdie,

When Doris deigns to gaze on me!

When Doris deigns to smile on me

The whole world brighter grows;

A clearer azure takes the sky,

A deeper blush the rose;

The circling lark upon the wing

A sweeter, purer song doth sing,

And just a bit of Heav’n I see,

When Doris deigns to smile on me!

THE YEAR

Spring.
MAY EVENING.

SILENCE and peace. The warm, love-bringing Night

From the pure zenith soft and slow descending

Lulls the sweet air to rest, with the day’s ending,

Save where the dark bat wheels his fickle flight.

Deep glows the rosy-golden West, still bright,

Beyond the plumy toss of elms down-bending,

Whilst on the close-cut lawns, blurring and bending,

Tall chapel-windows cast their ruddy light.

Now the clear blue of the mid dome of heaven

Darkens, immeasurably deep and still.

That one full star which ushers in the even

Burns in rapt glory o’er the steadfast spire;

And the Night-angel strews at his sweet will

The silvern star-dust of the heavenly choir.

Summer.
AUGUST RAIN.

DEAD is the day, and through the list’ning leaves

The wind-dirge sighs. Sad at my dim-lit pane

I darkling sit to hear the pattering rain

And pebbly drip that plashes from the eaves.

Far in the misty fields loll sodden sheaves,

Whilst every wheel-mark in the rutty lane

Leads down its trickling rivulet to drain

Marsh-meadows where the knotted willow grieves.

Gray afternoon to dusk hath given place,

And dusk to silent darkness falls again.

Listless, to see the sad earth veil her face,

I watch the miry fields, the swollen rills,

And, farther, through my glimmering windowpane,

The rain-swept valley and the fading hills...

Autumn
NOVEMBER IN CAMBRIDGE.

EVEN in her mourning is the College fair,

With burial robes of scarlet leaves and gold

That flicker down in misty morning cold

Or fall reluctant through gray evening air.

The Gothic elms rise desolately bare;

A clinging flame the twisted ivy crawls

Its blood-red course athwart the time-worn walls

And spreads its crimson arras everywhere.

High noon brings some wan ghost of summer, still;

Fresh stand the rose-trees yet, the lawns show green

With leaves inlaid, and still the pigeons fly

Round sun-warm gables where they court and preen;

But evenfall comes shuddering down, a-chill,

And bare black branches fret the leaden sky.

Winter.
HAMPTON HOLIDAYS.

LAST comes December with his ruffian wind

Whirled from the maelstrom of the polar sea

To sweep our mighty hill in mockery

Of such enshrouding snows as would be kind

And wrap their frozen mother. Stiffly lined

Through thin and crackling ice the leaves lie stark

As hoar Caina’s ice-locked souls, and dark

In the dark air the branches toss and grind.

Then dawns another day when winds are still;

From our frost-flashing village on the hill

We greet the laggard sun, and far below

All down the valley see the silver spread,

Save where the dim fir-forest’s pungent bed

Lies thatched by tufted pine-plumes bright with snow.

MORS OMNIUM VICTOR

Gunga Din in Hell.

“An’ I’ll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!”

Kipling.

GREEN crawling slime, that bubbles clotted blood;

White wraiths of fetid steam that rise and curl,

And blood-red mist, convolving in a swirl

Of lurid heat, o’er that putrescent flood;

And under all, a seething, rotting mud—

Torn souls that once were men—flayed, bleeding souls,

Souls drenched with gore from gangrenous bullet-holes,

Green, sightless eyes—and blood, and blood, and blood!

Lo! Gunga Din! He cometh smeared with gore

That dribbles from cleft forehead to the skin

Of putrid drink, one black foot on Hell’s shore,

One in the slime. A flayed hand toward him grasps,

And one blind, shattered head that bleeds for sin

Bloats forth its purple tongue in strangling gasps.

Cui Bono?

NAY, vex me not with dead theologies,

With creeds outworn and vain polemic strife;

To solve the riddles of some future life

Why chill my soul with stark philosophies?

What then to me is Aristoteles,

Plato, or he who had the shrewish wife

(Small blame to her!), or Pyrrho’s doubtings, rife  

With contradiction’s maziest subtleties?

Only one thing is sure—they all are dead;

Sere theologians, wranglers of the schools,

Philosophers and creedsmen have surcease

From war, their dust no better than the fools’

Wherewith ’tis mingled undistinguishèd.

So, vex me not, but go your ways in peace...

The Bride-Bed.

SHE died and by her bed I sat all night.

I had no tears; it was o’er soon to weep

In those first hours; my heart was cleft too deep

For pain to harbor there. A waning light

From the old moon englorified her bright

And unadornèd hair, a heavy braid

Across her breast. I watched her, unafraid

To warm that leaden hand so waxen-white.

This was her Bride-bed—Death her lover was

As she had promised I sometime should be.

She lay entwinèd in his arms, and I

Kept watch, and a great cold came over us...

At last the untroubled stars that gazed on me

Waxed pale and faded in the morning sky.

Dead Loves.

LONG summer nights with moon that yearneth down

On endless passion, through uncounted years,

On flames of love more hot than all those tears

Of ardent pain it worketh aye can drown;

Long summer nights in vast Assyria’s town,

At white-walled Athens, in imperial Rome,

Or midst dim Northern forests, by the foam

Of seas unsailed ere Arthur won renown.

Moonlight and leafshade—nights full sweet and long:

“O Love, my love, how white thy breast! Thy kiss

Upon my mouth, how mad!”—“And thou, how strong

Thine arms! I fear thy passion!”—“Tell me, must

Not Time and Death bow down to love like this?...”

Now, even their graves are crumbled into dust.

Death, the Friend.

FULL long these dreary weeks of dule I spend

On this my narrow bed of bitter pain.

Alike to me are sunshine, cloud or rain,

The day’s beginning or its sombre end;

Even sleep itself doth little comfort lend,

For in vast dreams the torment comes again

Vague and distorted by my feverish brain

Until I wake and long for Death the Friend.

Death! I do fear that empty, breathless Night

Thou bringest, not the sweat and agony,

The struggling breath, the terror or the sight

Of Earth and all my being leaving me;

For couldst thou promise an awakening—

Then, Death, enfold me with thy shadowy wing!...

La Jeune Fille.

“Elle était bien belle, le matin, sans atours!”

HOW fair, at dawn, how simply did she go,

Watching her new-born garden flowrets thrive,

Spying her bees in their ambrosial hive,

Ling’ring beside each hedge and hawthorn row!

How fair at eventide lead on the maze

Of the mad dance, whilst in her massy hair

Sapphires and roses woven crowned more fair

That face illumined by the torches’ blaze!

How fair was she beneath her pure soft veil,

Outfloating wide upon the listening night;

Silent we stood and far, to watch that sight,

Happy to glimpse her in the starlight pale.

How fair was she! Each day some sweetness gave,

Some vague dear hope, pure thoughts and free from care.

Love, love was all she lacked, to grow more fair.

Peace!... Through the fields they bear her to the grave!...

Lucie.

Mes chers amis, quand je mourrai,

Plantez un saule au cimetière.

J’aime son feuillage éploré,

La pâleur m’en est douce et chère,

Et son ombre sera légère

A la terre où je dormirai.

Alfred de Musset.

DEAR friends belovèd, when I die,

Plant near my grave a willow-tree.

I love its pale, down-drooping leaves,

Its grace is sweet and dear to me,

And light its tender shade will be

Upon the green earth where I lie...

One night we were alone and by her side

I sat, she drooped her head and as a-dream

Over the spinet let her fair hand glide.

So soft the murmur was it scarce could seem

More than a zephyr whispering in the reeds,

Soft moving lest the birds, warm-nested there

Should hear and wake. The soft, voluptuous air

Of that sweet summer night breathed forth to us

From flowery chalices beside the glimmering stream.

Far in the silent grove the chestnut-trees

And ancient oaks swayed their sad branches slow;

We sat and, listening to the amorous breeze,

Through the half-opened casement let the low

Sweet breath of Spring float in. The winds were still,

The plain deserted. All alone we were

And very young... Lucie was blonde and pale

And pensive. As I musing gazed on her

No sweeter eyes than hers e’er pierced the deep

Of purest heaven, or mirrored back its blue.

I with her beauty drunken was; in all

The world I loved but her, and yet so true

So pure she was I loved her as one loves

A sister, in all innocence. We two

Sat silent and alone; my hand touched hers,

I watched the dreams upon her face and knew

In my own soul how strong to heal distress

Are those twin signs of peace and happiness,

Youth in the heart, youth mirrored on the brow.

The moon, uprising in the cloudless skies,

With silver fret-work flooded her, and now

Her smile became an angel’s smile; she sang,

Seeing her image shining in mine eyes.

Daughter of sorrow, Harmony! Harmony!

Sweet speech for love by Nature set apart!

To us thou camest from Italy—to her

From Heaven. Sweet language of the heart,

In thee alone that maiden, Thought, afraid

And hurt by even a passing cloud, may speak,

Yet keep her modest veil, and sheltered be.

Who knows the mysteries that a child may hear

And utter in thy sighs divine, like thee

Born of the air he breathes, sweet as his voice,

And sad as his sad heart? A glance, a tear

Is seen, yet all the rest is mystery

Unknown to the careless world, like that of waves,

Of night, or of the unfathomed wilderness...

We were alone and sad; I looked on her.

The dying echo of her song seemed still

To vibrate in our souls. All passionless

Drooping upon my heart, she leaned her head.

The cry of Desdemona didst thou hear

In thee, dear girl? I know not—only this,

That thou didst weep, and on thine all-adored

Sweet mouth in sadness let me press mine own;

Thy sorrow was it that received my kiss...

So kissed I thee, all cold and colourless;

So, two short months being sped, wert thou

Laid in the grave; so didst thou fade in death

Oh my chaste flower! And thy dying was

A smile as sweet as thy fair life had been.

God took thee pure as when He gave thee breath.

Sweet mystery of the home of innocence,

Songs, dreams of love, laughter and childish words,

And thou, all-conquering charm, unknown and mild,

Yet strong to make even Faustus pause before

The sill of Marguerite at thy command,

Where are you all? Peace to thy soul, oh child!

Profoundest peace be to thy memories!

Farewell! On summer nights thy fair white hand

Will rest no more upon the ivory keys...

Dear friends belovèd, when I die,

Plant near my grave a willow-tree.

I love its pale, down-drooping leaves

Its grace is sweet and dear to me,

And light its tender shade will be.

Upon the green earth where I lie....

Luctus in Morte Passeris.

“Lugete, O Veneres Cupidenesque, et quantum est hominum venustiorum.”

C. Valerius Catullus.

I BID you all, ye Loves and Cupids, mourn,

With what of pitying kindness men may know.

The sparrow of my little maid forlorn

Ay, even my sweetheart’s sparrow, cherished so,

(Loved like her very eyes, ah heavy woe!)

Is dead. Full sweet was he, and knew her well

As she her mother knew, nor long would stray

From her fair breast, save here to hop, or there;

His pretty pipings were for her alway.

Yet now he wings the shadowy gloom of Hell,

Whence none return to breathe Earth’s pleasant air.

But curses on thee, dark and evil shade

So to engulf all things that lovely be!

Thou’st robbed her sparrow from my little maid;

(Alas the crime, the sparrow stark and dead!)

And now with swollen eyes, because of thee

She weeps, alack, nor will be comforted.

Death in December.

I.

WITH roses will I strew our bed

Where all thine own thou madest me;

With rose-wreaths I entwine thy head

So dear, so dead.

This is Love’s inmost place, where we

Learned and with madness learned again      

And knew Love’s passionate agony

That wasteth me.

Now is thy room and mine Death’s room,

And this our bed (O burning kiss!)

Is made Death’s icy bed. The tomb

Shrouds it in gloom.

II.

The snow beats up about the pane

Where once we watched the August night,

And wild mad winds drive on amain

Across the plain.

III.

Alone!... Alone? Beneath my heart

Fainting I feel our new life beat,

Where our lives, joined, though dead thou art,

Share each a part.

On thy clear temples, bleeding-red

The rose-wreaths twine, the flowers die.

With roses do I deck our bed

Where thou liest dead.

The Royal Council.

(To the Peruvian Mummies in the Peabody Museum at Cambridge.)

BOWED be three time-gnawed heads in thoughts profound

On crackling breast, on fleshless hands, on knees,

Sunk in the depths of endless reveries

Whilst foolish sun and fretful earth spin round.

By night they counsel, argue, plan, expound

And hold high court as once by tropic seas;

By day they rightly take their royal ease

As fitteth those whom Death no more can hound.

Sage King, and ye two Councillors of State,

We look on you with ignorant, living eyes.

Ye fear no death who be already dead—

Time pricks you not, nor haste. Ye sit and wait,

Each thoughtful, passionless and very wise,

With shrivelled bones and parchment-covered head...

Carmen Mortis.

THIS is the Song of Death,

This is the burial-note

After the end of breath

Gasped by corrupted throat;

After the passing-breath

Heard from the grave remote;

This is the Song of Death,

This is the burial-note...

O, sweet it is to be long since dead

And buried in earth so cold;

To feel on the roof of thy narrow bed

The weight of the sodden mould,

To lie in the dark of an endless night

And the lees of an oozing slime—

I know these joys, for I have been dead

And buried, a long, long time...

My lips they are drawn in a ghastly smile

But through them there goes no breath;

And my eyes they are dead and sunk in my head,

Yet forever they stare, in death,

For I look at the rotting burial-boards

Close sagging above my head;

Yea, I have been buried a long, long time,

For I have been long since dead...

My corpse is a-cold, for the chilling mould

Is about me on every side.

I lie like a stone, with my Terror, alone,

For here in the grave I died...

Yea, I screamed full loud in my ghastly shroud

When I woke in the noisome gloom,

And the sweat of my agony froze like ice

As I fought with my fearful doom...

But now—I am dead, though my lips still laugh

In the motionless black of night,

Though my bleared eyes stare in the grave, for they see

Not even the glow-worm’s light;

Yet still I can see that to buried be

Is a sweet and a happy thing,

For I sing my Song in the House of Death,

And this is the Song I sing:

Welcome - slimy - worm - with - sightless - head -

Blindly - burrowing - in - the - fearful - night -

Happy - shouldst - thou - be - for - lack - of - sight -

Since - thou - canst - not - see - that - I - am - dead -

When - thou - comest - from - thy - secret - place -

Eating - through - the - earth - with - silent - care -

Boldly - come - I - bid - and - boldly - dare -

Down - to - drop - upon - my - leaden - face -

Drag - thy - sluggish - slime - across - my - eyes -

They - will - never - close - to - touch - of - thine -

Coil - within - these - hideous - lips - of - mine -

Where - a - Maid - breathed - long - ago - her - sighs -

Welcome - slimy - worm - with - creeping - head -

Meet - it - is - that - thou - my - friend - shouldst - be -

Happy - art - thou - since - thou - canst - not - see -

I - am - buried - deep - and - I - am - dead

Then these be the words of the Song of Death

That I sing in my prison-cell.

It charms the worms with the hooded heads,

And the worms I love full well.

It charms the worms, though my singing is

But a mouthing, mumbling groan,

For I have no breath in this House of Death

And I mutter with lips alone...

So, my tale it is told of the dread and cold

In the depths of this livid gloom;

And I motionless lie, as I strive to die,

As I rot in my narrow room,

For I am not dead whilst my fearful head

The foul, fat worms forsake;

But, when that is gone, then my dream it is done,

And I sleep at last, never to wake...

This is the Song of Death,

This is the burial-note

After the end of breath

Gasped by corrupted throat;

After the passing breath

Heard from the grave remote;

This is the burial-note,

This is the Song of Death...

FOOTNOTES:

[A] From Gaëtan de Méaulne’s “Course des Grands Masqués.” Here reprinted by courtesy of the New York “Herald.” To this translation was awarded the Herald’s First Prize of 500 francs.

[B] This North Country ballad probably dates from about 1525. It was found in a fragmentary condition in a copy of the 1684 edition of Abraham Cowley’s Poetical Works, and is here for the first time completed and made public.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.