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Poems

<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/cover.jpg" width-obs="500" alt="" /></div> <h1>POEMS</h1> <h3>BY</h3> <h2>GEORGE SANTAYANA</h2> <h4>SELECTED BY THE AUTHOR AND REVISED</h4> <h5>CONSTABLE AND COMPANY LTD. LONDON — BOMBAY — SYDNEY</h5> <h5>1922</h5> <hr class="full" /> CONTENTS SONNETS, 1883—1893— I.-XX SONNETS, 1895— XXI.-L MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS— ON A VOLUME OF SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY ON THE DEATH OF A METAPHYSICIAN. ON A PIECE OF TAPESTRY To W. P. BEFORE A STATUE OF ACHILLES THE RUSTIC AT THE PLAY ODES— I.-V ATHLETIC ODE VARIOUS POEMS CAPE COD A TOAST PREMONITION SOLIPSISM SYBARIS AVILA KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL ON AN UNFINISHED STATUE MIDNIGHT IN GRANTCHESTER MEADOWS SPAIN IN AMERICA A MINUET TRANSLATIONS— FROM MICHAEL ANGELO FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER A SPANIARD IN ENGLAND by EDMUND GOSSE <hr class="chap" /> <h5>PREFACE</h5> New editions of books are a venture for publishers rather than authors. The author has committed his rash act once for all at the beginning and he can hardly retract or repeat it. Nevertheless if I had not connived and collaborated at this selection of verses written (almost all of them) in my younger days, they probably would not have reappeared. I therefore owe an apology to my best critics and friends, who have always warned me that I am no poet; all the more since, in the sense in which they mean the word, I heartily agree with them. Of impassioned tenderness or Dionysiac frenzy I have nothing, nor even of that magic and pregnancy of phrasere—ally the creation of a fresh idiom—which marks the high lights of poetry. Even if my temperament had been naturally warmer, the fact that the English language (and I can write no other with assurance) was not my mother-tongue would of itself preclude any inspired use of it on my part; its roots do not quite reach to my centre. I never drank in in childhood the homely cadences and ditties which in pure spontaneous poetry set the essential key. I know no words redolent of the wonder-world, the fairy-tale, or the cradle. Moreover, I am city-bred, and that companionship with nature, those rural notes, which for English poets are almost inseparable from poetic feeling, fail me altogether. Landscape to me is only a background for fable or a symbol for fate, as it was to the ancients; and the human scene itself is but a theme for reflection. Nor have I been tempted into the by-ways even of towns, or fascinated by the aspect and humours of all sorts and conditions of men. My approach to language is literary, my images are only metaphors, and sometimes it seems to me that I resemble my countryman Don Quixote, when in his airy flights he was merely perched on a high horse and a wooden Pegasus; and I ask myself if I ever had anything to say in verse that might not have been said better in prose. And yet, in reality, there was no such alternative. What I felt when I composed those verses could not have been rendered in any other form. Their sincerity is absolute, not only in respect to the thought which might be abstracted from them and expressed in prose, but also in respect to the aura of literary and religious associations which envelops them. If their prosody is worn and traditional, like a liturgy, it is because they represent the initiation of a mind into a world older and larger than itself; not the chance experiences of a stray individual, but his submission to what is not his chance experience; to the truth of nature and the moral heritage of mankind. Here is the uncertain hand of an apprentice, but of an apprentice in a great school. Verse is one of the traditions of literature. Like the orders of Greek architecture, the sonnet or the couplet or the quatrain are better than anything else that has been devised to serve the same function; and the innate freedom of poets to hazard new forms does not abolish the freedom of all men to adopt the old ones. It is almost inevitable that a man of letters, if his mind is cultivated and capable of moral concentration, should versify occasionally, or should have versified. He need not on that account pose as a poetic genius, and yet his verses (like those of Michael Angelo, for instance) may form a part, even if a subordinate part, of the expression of his mind. Poetry was made for man, not man for poetry, and there are really as many kinds of it as there are poets, or even verses. Is Hamlet's Soliloquy poetry? Would it have conveyed its meaning better if not reined in by the metre, and made to prance and turn to the cadences of blank verse? Whether better or worse, it would certainly not be itself without that movement. Versification is like a pulsing accompaniment, somehow sustaining and exalting the clear logic of the words. The accompaniment may be orchestral, but it is not necessarily worse for being thrummed on a mandolin or a guitar. So the couplets of Pope or Dryden need not be called poetry, but they could not have been prose. They frame in a picture, balanced like the dance. There is an elevation, too, in poetic diction, just because it is consecrated and archaic; a pomp as of a religious procession, without which certain intuitions would lose all their grace and dignity. Borrowed plumes would not even seem an ornament if they were not in themselves beautiful. To say that what was good once is good no longer is to give too much importance to chronology. Æsthetic fashions may change, losing as much beauty at one end as they gain at the other, but innate taste continues to recognise its affinities, however remote, and need never change. Mask and buskin are often requisite in order to transport what is great in human experience out of its embosoming littleness. They are inseparable from finality, from perception of the ultimate. Perhaps it is just this tragic finality that English poets do not have and do not relish: they feel it to be rhetorical. But verse after all is a form of rhetoric, as is all speech and even thought; a means of pouring experience into a mould which fluid experience cannot supply, and of transmuting emotion into ideas, by making it articulate. In one sense I think that my verses, mental and thin as their texture may be, represent a true inspiration, a true docility. A Muse? not exactly an English Muse—actually visited me in my isolation; the same, or a ghost of the same, that visited Boethius or Alfred de Musset or Leopardi. It was literally impossible for me then not to re-echo her eloquence. When that compulsion ceased, I ceased to write verses. My emotion—for there was genuine emotion—faded into a sense that my lesson was learned and my troth plighted; there was no longer any occasion for this sort of breathlessness and unction. I think the discerning reader will probably prefer the later prose versions of my philosophy; I prefer them myself, as being more broadly based, saner, more humorous. Yet if he is curious in the matter he may find the same thing here nearer to its fountain-head, in its accidental early setting, and with its most authentic personal note. For as to the subject of these poems, it is simply my philosophy in the making. I should not give the title of philosopher to every logician or psychologist who, in his official and studious moments, may weigh argument against argument or may devise expedients for solving theoretical puzzles. I see no reason why a philosopher should be puzzled. What he sees he sees; of the rest he is ignorant; and his sense of this vast ignorance (which is his natural and inevitable condition) is a chief part of his knowledge and of his emotion. Philosophy is not an optional theme that may occupy him on occasion. It is his only possible life, his daily response to everything. He lives by thinking, and his one perpetual emotion is that this world, with himself in it, should be the strange world which it is. Everything he thinks or utters will accordingly be an integral part of his philosophy, whether it be called poetry or science or criticism. The verses of a philosopher will be essentially epigrams, like those which the Greek sages composed; they will moralise the spectacle, whether it be some personal passion or some larger aspect of nature. My own moral philosophy, especially as expressed in this more sentimental form, may not seem very robust or joyous. Its fortitude and happiness are those of but one type of soul. The owl hooting from his wintry bough cannot be chanticleer crowing in the barnyard, yet he is sacred to Minerva; and the universal poet, who can sing the humours of winter no less lustily than those of spring, may even speak of his "merry note," worthy to mingle with the other pleasant accidents of the somberer season, When icicles hang by the wall, .  .  .  .  .  . And coughing drowns the parson's saw. But whether the note seem merry or sad, musical or uncouth, it is itself a note of nature; and it may at least be commended, seeing it conveys a philosophy, for not conveying it by argument, but frankly making confession of an actual spiritual experience, addressed only to those whose ear it may strike sympathetically and who, crossing the same dark wood on their own errands, may pause for a moment to listen gladly. G. S. November 1922. <hr class="chap" /> SONNETS 1883-1893 I I sought on earth a garden of delight, Or island altar to the Sea and Air, Where gentle music were accounted prayer, And reason, veiled, performed the happy rite. My sad youth worshipped at the piteous height Where God vouchsafed the death of man to share; His love made mortal sorrow light to bear, But his deep wounds put joy to shamèd flight. And though his arms, outstretched upon the tree, Were beautiful, and pleaded my embrace, My sins were loth to look upon his face. So came I down from Golgotha to thee, Eternal Mother; let the sun and sea Heal me, and keep me in thy dwelling-place. II Slow and reluctant was the long descent, With many farewell pious looks behind, And dumb misgivings where the path might wind, And questionings of nature, as I went. The greener branches that above me bent, The broadening valleys, quieted my mind, To the fair reasons of the Spring inclined And to the Summer's tender argument. But sometimes, as revolving night descended, And in my childish heart the new song ended, I lay down, full of longing, on the steep; And, haunting still the lonely way I wended, Into my dreams the ancient sorrow blended, And with these holy echoes charmed my sleep. III O world, thou choosest not the better part! It is not wisdom to be only wise, And on the inward vision close the eyes, But it is wisdom to believe the heart. Columbus found a world, and had no chart, Save one that faith deciphered in the skies; To trust the soul's invincible surmise Was all his science and his only art. Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine That lights the pathway but one step ahead Across a void of mystery and dread. Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine By which alone the mortal heart is led Unto the thinking of the thought divine. IV I would I had been born in nature's day, When man was in the world a wide-eyed boy, And clouds of sorrow crossed his sky of joy To scatter dewdrops on the buds of May. Then could he work and love and fight and pray, Nor heartsick grow in fortune's long employ. Mighty to build and ruthless to destroy He lived, while masked death unquestioned lay. Now ponder we the ruins of the years, And groan beneath the weight of boasted gain; No unsung bacchanal can charm our ears And lead our dances to the woodland fane, No hope of heaven sweeten our few tears And hush the importunity of pain. V Dreamt I to-day the dream of yesternight, Sleep ever feigning one evolving theme,— Of my two lives which should I call the dream? Which action vanity? which vision sight? Some greater waking must pronounce aright, If aught abideth of the things that seem, And with both currents swell the flooded stream Into an ocean infinite of light. Even such a dream I dream, and know full well My waking passeth like a midnight spell, But know not if my dreaming breaketh through Into the deeps of heaven and of hell. I know but this of all I would I knew: Truth is a dream, unless my dream is true. VI Love not as do the flesh-imprisoned men Whose dreams are of a bitter bought caress, Or even of a maiden's tenderness Whom they love only that she loves again. For it is but thyself thou lovest then, Or what thy thoughts would glory to possess; But love thou nothing thou wouldst love the less If henceforth ever hidden from thy ken. Love but the formless and eternal Whole From whose effulgence one unheeded ray Breaks on this prism of dissolving clay Into the flickering colours of thy soul. These flash and vanish; bid them not to stay, For wisdom brightens as they fade away. VII I would I might forget that I am I, And break the heavy chain that binds me fast, Whose links about myself my deeds have cast. What in the body's tomb doth buried lie Is boundless; 'tis the spirit of the sky, Lord of the future, guardian of the past, And soon must forth, to know his own at last. In his large life to live, I fain would die. Happy the dumb beast, hungering for food, But calling not his suffering his own; Blessed the angel, gazing on all good, But knowing not he sits upon a throne; Wretched the mortal, pondering his mood, And doomed to know his aching heart alone. VIII O martyred Spirit of this helpless Whole, Who dost by pain for tyranny atone, And in the star, the atom, and the stone, Purgest the primal guilt, and in the soul; Rich but in grief, thou dost thy wealth unroll, And givest of thy substance to thine own, Mingling the love, the laughter, and the groan In the large hollow of the heaven's bowl. Fill full my cup; the dregs and honeyed brim I take from thy just hand, more worthy love For sweetening not the draught for me or him. What in myself I am, that let me prove; Relent not for my feeble prayer, nor dim The burning of thine altar for my hymn. IX Have patience; it is fit that in this wise The spirit purge away its proper dross. No endless fever doth thy watches toss, For by excess of evil, evil dies. Soon shall the faint world melt before thine eyes, And, all life's losses cancelled by life's loss, Thou shalt lay down all burdens on thy cross, And be that day with God in Paradise. Have patience; for a long eternity No summons woke thee from thy happy sleep; For love of God one vigil thou canst keep And add thy drop of sorrow to the sea. Having known grief, all will be well with thee, Ay, and thy second slumber will be deep. X Have I the heart to wander on the earth, So patient in her everlasting course, Seeking no prize, but bowing to the force That gives direction and hath given birth? Rain tears, sweet Pity, to refresh my dearth, And plough my sterile bosom, sharp Remorse, That I grow sick and curse my being's source If haply one day passes lacking mirth. Doth the sun therefore burn, that I may bask? Or do the tired earth and tireless sea, That toil not for their pleasure, toil for me? Amid the world's long striving, wherefore ask What reasons were, or what rewards shall be? The covenant God gave us is a task. XI Deem not, because you see me in the press Of this world's children run my fated race, That I blaspheme against a proffered grace, Or leave unlearned the love of holiness. I honour not that sanctity the less Whose aureole illumines not my face, But dare not tread the secret, holy place To which the priest and prophet have access. For some are born to be beatified By anguish, and by grievous penance done; And some, to furnish forth the age's pride, And to be praised of men beneath the sun; And some are born to stand perplexed aside From so much sorrow—of whom I am one. XII Mightier storms than this are brewed on earth That pricks the crystal lake with summer showers. The past hath treasure of sublimer hours, And God is witness to their changeless worth. Big is the future with portentous birth Of battles numberless, and nature's powers Outdo my dreams of beauty in the flowers, And top my revels with the demons' mirth. But thou, glad river that hast reached the plain, Scarce wak'st the rushes to a slumberous sigh. The mountains sleep behind thee, and the main Awaits thee, lulling an eternal pain With patience; nor doth Phoebe, throned on high, The mirror of thy placid heart disdain. XIII Sweet are the days we wander with no hope Along life's labyrinthine trodden way, With no impatience at the steep's delay, Nor sorrow at the swift-descended slope. Why this inane curiosity to grope In the dim dust for gems' unmeaning ray? Why this proud piety, that dares to pray For a world wider than the heaven's cope? Farewell, my burden! No more will I bear The foolish load of my fond faith's despair, But trip the idle race with careless feet. The crown of olive let another wear; It is my crown to mock the runner's heat With gentle wonder and with laughter sweet. XIV There may be chaos still around the world, This little world that in my thinking lies; For mine own bosom is the paradise Where all my life's fair visions are unfurled. Within my nature's shell I slumber curled, Unmindful of the changing outer skies, Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies, Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled. I heed them not; or if the subtle night Haunt me with deities I never saw, I soon mine eyelid's drowsy curtain draw To hide their myriad faces from my sight. They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw. XV A wall, a wall to hem the azure sphere, And hedge me in from the disconsolate hills! Give me but one of all the mountain rills, Enough of ocean in its voice I hear. Come no profane insatiate mortal near With the contagion of his passionate ills; The smoke of battle all the valleys fills, Let the eternal sunlight greet me here. This spot is sacred to the deeper soul And to the piety that mocks no more. In nature's inmost heart is no uproar, None in this shrine; in peace the heavens roll, In peace the slow tides pulse from shore to shore, And ancient quiet broods from pole to pole. XVI A thousand beauties that have never been Haunt me with hope and tempt me to pursue; The gods, methinks, dwell just behind the blue; The satyrs at my coming fled the green. The flitting shadows of the grove between The dryads' eyes were winking, and I knew The wings of sacred Eros as he flew And left me to the love of things not seen. 'Tis a sad love, like an eternal prayer, And knows no keen delight, no faint surcease. Yet from the seasons hath the earth increase, And heaven shines as if the gods were there. Had Dian passed there could no deeper peace Embalm the purple stretches of the air. XVII There was a time when in the teeth of fate I flung the challenge of the spirit's right; The child, the dreamer of that visioned night, Woke, and was humbled unto man's estate. A slave I am; on sun and moon I wait, Who heed not that I live upon their light. Me they despise, but are themselves so bright They flood my heart with love, and quench my hate. O subtle Beauty, sweet persuasive worth That didst the love of being first inspire, We do thee homage both in death and birth. Thirsting for thee, we die in thy great dearth, Or borrow breath of infinite desire To chase thine image through the haunted earth. XVIII Blaspheme not love, ye lovers, nor dispraise The wise divinity that makes you blind, Sealing the eyes, but showing to the mind The high perfection from which nature strays. For love is God, and in unfathomed ways Brings forth the beauty for which fancy pined. I loved, and lost my love among mankind; But I have found it after many days. Oh, trust in God, and banish rash despair, That, feigning evil, is itself the curse! My angel is come back, more sad and fair, And witness to the truth of love I bear, With too much rapture for this sacred verse, At the exceeding answer to my prayer. XIX Above the battlements of heaven rise The glittering domes of the gods' golden dwelling, Whence, like a constellation, passion-quelling, The truth of all things feeds immortal eyes. There all forgotten dreams of paradise From the deep caves of memory upwelling, All tender joys beyond our dim foretelling Are ever bright beneath the flooded skies. There we live o'er, amid angelic powers, Our lives without remorse, as if not ours, And others' lives with love, as if our own; For we behold, from those eternal towers, The deathless beauty of all winged hours, And have our being in their truth alone. XX These strewn thoughts, by the mountain pathway sprung, I conned for comfort, till I ceased to grieve, And with these flowering thorns I dare to weave The crown, great Mother, on thine altar hung. Teach thou a larger speech to my loosed tongue, And to mine opened eyes thy secrets give, That in thy perfect love I learn to live, And in thine immortality be young. The soul is not on earth an alien thing That hath her life's rich sources otherwhere; She is a parcel of the sacred air. She takes her being from the breath of Spring, The glance of Phoebus is her fount of light, And her long sleep a draught of primal night. <hr class="chap" /> SONNETS XXI Among the myriad voices of the Spring What were the voice of my supreme desire, What were my cry amid the vernal choir, Or my complaint before the gods that sing? O too late love, O flight on wounded wing, Infinite hope my lips should not suspire, Why, when the world is thine, my grief require, Or mock my dear-bought patience with thy sting? Though I be mute, the birds will in the boughs Sing as in every April they have sung, And, though I die, the incense of heart-vows Will float to heaven, as when I was young. But, O ye beauties I must never see, How great a lover have you lost in me! XXII 'Tis love that moveth the celestial spheres In endless yearning for the Changeless One, And the stars sing together, as they run To number the innumerable years. 'Tis love that lifteth through their dewy tears The roses' beauty to the heedless sun, And with no hope, nor any guerdon won, Love leads me on, nor end of love appears. For the same breath that did awake the flowers, Making them happy with a joy unknown, Kindled my light and fixed my spirit's goal; And the same hand that reined the flying hours And chained the whirling earth to Phoebus' throne, In love's eternal orbit keeps the soul. XXIII But is this love, that in my hollow breast Gnaws like a silent poison, till I faint? Is this the vision that the haggard saint Fed with his vigils, till he found his rest? Is this the hope that piloted thy quest, Knight of the Grail, and kept thy heart from taint? Is this the heaven, poets, that ye paint? Oh, then, how like damnation to be blest! This is not love: it is that worser thing— Hunger for love, while love is yet to learn. Thy peace is gone, my soul; thou long must yearn. Long is thy winter's pilgrimage, till spring And late home-coming; long ere thou return To where the seraphs covet not, and burn. XXIV Although I decked a chamber for my bride, And found a moonlit garden for the tryst Wherein all flowers looked happy as we kissed, Hath the deep heart of me been satisfied? The chasm 'twixt our spirits yawns as wide Though our lips meet, and clasp thee as I list, The something perfect that I love is missed, And my warm worship freezes into pride. But why—O waywardness of nature!—why Seek farther in the world? I had my choice, And we said we were happy, you and I. Why in the forest should I hear a cry, Or in the sea an unavailing voice, Or feel a pang to look upon the sky? XXV As in the midst of battle there is room For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth; As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom; As in the crevices of Caesar's tomb The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth: So in this great disaster of our birth We can be happy, and forget our doom. For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth, And evening gently woos us to employ Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth; Till from that summer's trance we wake, to find Despair before us, vanity behind. XXVI Oh, if the heavy last unuttered groan That lieth here could issue to the air, Then might God's peace descend on my despair And seal this heart as with a mighty stone. For what sin, Heaven, must I thus atone? Was it a sin to love what seemed so fair? If thou deny me hope, why give me care? I have not lived, and die alone, alone. This is not new. Many have perished so. Long years of nothing, with some days of grief, Made their sad life. Their own hand sought relief Too late to find it, impotently slow. I know, strong Fate, the trodden way I go. Joy lies behind me. Be the journey brief. XXVII Sleep hath composed the anguish of my brain, And ere the dawn I will arise and pray. Strengthen me, Heaven, and attune my lay Unto my better angel's clear refrain. For I can hear him in the night again, The breathless night, snow-smothered, happy, grey, With premonition of the jocund day, Singing a quiet carol to my pain. Slowly, saith he, the April buds are growing In the chill core of twigs all leafless now; Gently, beneath the weight of last night's snowing, Patient of winter's hand, the branches bow. Each buried seed lacks light as much as thou. Wait for the spring, brave heart; there is no knowing. XXVIII Out of the dust the queen of roses springs; The brackish depths of the blown waters bear Blossoms of foam; the common mist and air Weave Vesper's holy, pity-laden wings. So from sad, mortal, and unhallowed things Bud stars that in their crowns the angels wear; And worship of the infinitely fair Flows from thine eyes, as wise Petrarca sings: "Hence comes the understanding of love's scope, That, seeking thee, to perfect good aspires, Accounting little what all flesh desires; And hence the spirit's happy pinions ope In flight impetuous to the heaven's choirs: Wherefore I walk already proud in hope." XXIX What riches have you that you deem me poor, Or what large comfort that you call me sad? Tell me what makes you so exceeding glad: Is your earth happy or your heaven sure? I hope for heaven, since the stars endure And bring such tidings as our fathers had. I know no deeper doubt to make me mad, I need no brighter love to keep me pure. To me the faiths of old are daily bread; I bless their hope, I bless their will to save, And my deep heart still meaneth what they said. It makes me happy that the soul is brave, And, being so much kinsman to the dead, I walk contented to the peopled grave. XXX Let my lips touch thy lips, and my desire Contagious fever be, to set a-glow The blood beneath thy whiter breast than snow— Wonderful snow, that so can kindle fire! Abandon to what gods in us conspire Thy little wisdom, sweetest; for they know. Is it not something that I love thee so? Take that from life, ere death thine all require. But no! Then would a mortal warmth disperse That beauteous snow to water-drops, which, turned To marble, had escaped the primal curse. Be still a goddess, till my heart have burned Its sacrifice before thee, and my verse Told this late world the love that I have learned. XXXI A brother's love, but that I chose thee out From all the world, not by the chance of birth, But in the risen splendour of thy worth, Which, like the sun, put all my stars to rout. A lover's love, but that it bred no doubt Of love returned, no heats of flood and dearth, But, asking nothing, found in all the earth The consolation of a heart devout. A votary's love, though with no pale and wild Imaginations did I stretch the might Of a sweet friendship and a mortal light. Thus in my love all loves are reconciled That purest be, and in my prayer the right Of brother, lover, friend, and eremite. XXXII Let not thy bosom, to my foes allied, Insult my sorrow with this coat of mail, When for thy strong defence, if love assail, Thou hast the world, thy virtue, and my pride. But if thine own dear eyes I see beside Sharpened against me, then my strength will fail, Abandoning sail and rudder to the gale For thy sweet sake alone so long defied. If I am poor, in death how rich and brave Will seem my spirit with the love it gave; If I am sad, I shall seem happy then. Be mine, be mine in God and in the grave, Since naught but chance and the insensate wave Divides us, and the wagging tongue of men. XXXIII A perfect love is nourished by despair. I am thy pupil in the school of pain; Mine eyes will not reproach thee for disdain, But thank thy rich disdain for being fair. Aye! the proud sorrow, the eternal prayer Thy beauty taught, what shall unteach again? Hid from my sight, thou livest in my brain; Fled from my bosom, thou abidest there. And though they buried thee, and called thee dead, And told me I should never see thee more, The violets that grew above thy head Would waft thy breath and tell thy sweetness o'er, And every rose thy scattered ashes bred Would to my sense thy loveliness restore. XXXIV Though destiny half broke her cruel bars, Herself contriving we should meet on earth, And with thy beauty fed my spirit's dearth And tuned to love the ages' many jars, Yet there is potency in natal stars; And we were far divided in our birth By nature's gifts and half the planet's girth, And speech, and faith, and blood, and ancient wars. Alas! thy very radiance made division, Thy youth, thy friends, and all men's eyes that wooed Thy simple kindness came as in derision Of so much love and so much solitude; Or did the good gods order all to show How far the single strength of love can go? XXXV We needs must be divided in the tomb, For I would die among the hills of Spain, And o'er the treeless melancholy plain Await the coming of the final gloom. But thou—O pitiful!—wilt find scant room Among thy kindred by the northern main, And fade into the drifting mist again, The hemlocks' shadow, or the pines' perfume. Let gallants lie beside their ladies' dust, In one cold grave, with mortal love inurned; Let the sea part our ashes, if it must. The souls fled thence which love immortal burned, For they were wedded without bond of lust, And nothing of our heart to earth returned. XXXVI We were together, and I longed to tell How drop by silent drop my bosom bled. I took some verses full of you, and read, Waiting for God to work some miracle. They told how love had plunged in burning hell One half my soul, while the other half had fled Upon love's wings to heaven; and you said: "I like the verses; they are written well." If I had knelt confessing "It is you, You are my torment and my rapture too," I should have seen you rise in flushed disdain: "For shame to say so, be it false or true!" And the sharp sword that ran me through and through, On your white bosom too had left a stain. XXXVII And I was silent. Now you do not know, But read these very words with vacant eyes, And, as you turn the page, peruse the skies, And I go by you as a cloud might go. You are not cruel, though you dealt the blow, And I am happy, though I miss the prize; For, when God tells you, you will not despise The love I bore you. It is better so. My soul is just, and thine without a stain. Why should not life divide us, whose division Is frail and passing, as its union vain? All things 'neath other planets will grow plain When, as we wander through the fields Elysian, Eternal echoes haunt us of this pain. XXXVIII Oh, not for me, for thee, dear God, her head Shines with this perfect golden aureole, For thee this sweetness doth possess her soul, And to thy chambers are her footsteps led. The light will live that on my path she shed, While any pilgrim yet hath any goal, And heavenly musicians from their scroll Will sing all her sweet words, when I am dead. In her unspotted heart is steadfast faith Fed on high thoughts, and in her beauteous face The fountain of the love that conquers death; And as I see her in her kneeling-place, A Gabriel comes, and with inaudible breath Whispers within me: Hail, thou full of grace. XXXIX The world will say, "What mystic love is this? What ghostly mistress? What angelic friend?" Read, masters, your own passion to the end, And tell me then if I have writ amiss. When all loves die that hang upon a kiss, And must with cavil and with chance contend, Their risen selves with the eternal blend Where perfect dying is their perfect bliss. And might I kiss her once, asleep or dead, Upon the forehead or the globed eyes, Or where the gold is parted on her head, That kiss would help me on to paradise As if I kissed the consecrated bread In which the buried soul of Jesus lies. XL If, when the story of my love is old, This book should live and lover's leisure feed, Fair charactered, for bluest eye to read,— And richly bound, for whitest hand to hold,— O limn me then this lovely head in gold, And, limner, the soft lips and lashes heed, And set her in the midst, my love indeed, The sweet eyes tender, and the broad brow cold. And never let thy colours think to cast A brighter splendour on her beauties past, Or venture to disguise a fancied flaw; Let not thy painting falsify my rhyme, But perfect keep the mould for after time, And let the whole world see her as I saw. XLI Yet why, of one who loved thee not, command Thy counterfeit, for other men to see, When God himself did on my heart for me Thy face, like Christ's upon the napkin, brand? O how much subtler than a painter's hand Is love to render back the truth of thee! My soul should be thy glass in time to be, And in my thought thine effigy should stand. Yet, lest the churlish critics of that age Should flout my praise, and deem a lover's rage Could gild a virtue and a grace exceed, I bid thine image here confront my page, That men may look upon thee as they read, And cry: Such eyes a better poet need. XLII As when the sceptre dangles from the hand Of some king doting, faction runneth wild, Thieves shake their chains and traitors, long exiled, Hover about the confines of the land, Till the young Prince, anointed, takes command, Full of high purpose, simple, trustful, mild, And, smitten by his radiance undefiled, The ruffians are abashed, the cowards stand:— So in my kingdom riot and despair Lived by thy lack, and called for thy control, But at thy coming all the world grew fair; Away before thy face the villains stole, And panoplied I rose to do and bear, When love his clarion sounded in my soul. XLIII The candour of the gods is in thy gaze, The strength of Dian in thy virgin hand, Commanding as the goddess might command, And lead her lovers into higher ways. Aye, the gods walk among us in these days, Had we the docile soul to understand; And me they visit in this joyless land, To cheer mine exile and receive my praise. For once, methinks, before the angels fell, Thou, too, didst follow the celestial seven Threading in file the meads of asphodel. And when thou comest, lady, where I dwell, The place is flooded with the light of heaven And a lost music I remember well. XLIV For thee the sun doth daily rise, and set Behind the curtain of the hills of sleep, And my soul, passing through the nether deep Broods on thy love, and never can forget. For thee the garlands of the wood are wet, For thee the daisies up the meadow's sweep Stir in the sidelong light, and for thee weep The drooping ferns above the violet. For thee the labour of my studious ease I ply with hope, for thee all pleasures please, Thy sweetness doth the bread of sorrow leaven; And from thy noble lips and heart of gold I drink the comfort of the faiths of old, And thy perfection is my proof of heaven. XLV Flower of the world, bright angel, single friend! I never asked of Heaven thou shouldst love me; As well ask Heaven's self that spreads above me With all his stars about my head to bend It is enough my spirit may ascend And clasp the good whence nothing can remove me; Enough, if faith and hope and love approve me, And make me worthy of the blessed end. And as a pilgrim from the path withdraws, Seeing Christ carven on the holy rood, And breathes an AVE in the solitude, So will I stop and pray—for I have cause— And in all crossways of my thinking pause Before thine image, saying: God is good. XLVI When I survey the harvest of the year And from time's threshing garner up the grain, What profit have I of forgotten pain, What comfort, heart-locked, for the winter's cheer? The season's yield is this, that thou art dear, And that I love thee, that is all my gain; The rest was chaff, blown from the weary brain Where now thy treasured image lieth clear. How liberal is beauty that, but seen, Makes rich the bosom of her silent lover! How excellent is truth, on which I lean! Yet my religion were a charmed despair, Did I not in thy perfect heart discover How beauty can be true and virtue fair. XLVII Thou hast no name, or, if a name thou bearest, To none it meaneth what it means to me: Thy form, the loveliness the world can see, Makes not the glory that to me thou wearest. Nor thine unuttered thoughts, though they be fairest And shaming all that in rude bosoms be: All they are but the thousandth part of thee, Which thou with blessed spirits haply sharest. But incommunicable, peerless, dim, Flooding my heart with anguish of despair, Thou walkest, love, before me, shade of Him Who only liveth, giveth, and is fair. And constant ever, though inconstant known, In all my loves I worshipped thee alone. XLVIII Of Helen's brothers, one was born to die And one immortal, who, the fable saith, Gave to the other that was nigh to death One half his widowed immortality. They would have lived and died alternately, Breathing each other's warm transmuted breath, Had not high Zeus, who justly ordereth, Made them twin stars to shine eternally. My heart was dying when thy flame of youth Flooded its chambers through my gazing eyes. My life is now thy beauty and thy truth. Thou wouldst come down, forsaking paradise To be my comfort, but by Heaven's ruth I go to burn beside thee in the skies. XLIX After grey vigils, sunshine in the heart; After long fasting on the journey, food; After sharp thirst, a draught of perfect good To flood the soul, and heal her ancient smart. Joy of my sorrow, never can we part; Thou broodest o'er me in the haunted wood, And with new music fill'st the solitude By but so sweetly being what thou art. He who hath made thee perfect, makes me blest. O fiery minister, on mighty wings Bear me, great love, to mine eternal rest. Heaven it is to be at peace with things; Come chaos now, and in a whirlwind's rings Engulf the planets. I have seen the best. L Though utter death should swallow up my hope And choke with dust the mouth of my desire, Though no dawn burst, and no aurorean choir Sing GLORIA DEO when the heavens ope, Yet have I light of love, nor need to grope Lost, wholly lost, without an inward fire; The flame that quickeneth the world entire Leaps in my breast, with cruel death to cope. Hath not the night-environed earth her flowers? Hath not my grief the blessed joy of thee? Is not the comfort of these singing hours, Full of thy perfectness, enough for me? They are not evil, then, those hidden powers: One love sufficeth an eternity. <hr class="chap" /> MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS ON A VOLUME OF SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY What chilly cloister or what lattice dim Cast painted light upon this careful page? What thought compulsive held the patient sage Till sound of matin bell or evening hymn? Did visions of the Heavenly Lover swim Before his eyes in youth, or did stern rage Against rash heresy keep green his age? Had he seen God, to write so much of Him? Gone is that irrecoverable mind With all its phantoms, senseless to mankind As a dream's trouble or the speech of birds. The breath that stirred his lips he soon resigned To windy chaos, and we only find The garnered husks of his disused words. ON THE DEATH OF A METAPHYSICIAN Unhappy dreamer, who outwinged in flight The pleasant region of the things I love, And soared beyond the sunshine, and above The golden cornfields and the dear and bright Warmth of the hearth,—blasphemer of delight, Was your proud bosom not at peace with Jove, That you sought, thankless for his guarded grove, The empty horror of abysmal night? Ah, the thin air is cold above the moon! I stood and saw you fall, befooled in death, As, in your numbed spirit's fatal swoon, You cried you were a god, or were to be; I heard with feeble moan your boastful breath Bubble from depths of the Icarian sea. ON A PIECE OF TAPESTRY Hold high the woof, dear friends, that we may see The cunning mixture of its colours rare. Nothing in nature purposely is fair,— Her beauties in their freedom disagree; But here all vivid dyes that garish be, To that tint mellowed which the sense will bear, Glow, and not wound the eye that, resting there, Lingers to feed its gentle ecstasy. Crimson and purple and all hues of wine, Saffron and russet, brown and sober green Are rich the shadowy depths of blue between; While silver threads with golden intertwine, To catch the glimmer of a fickle sheen,— All the long labour of some captive queen. TO W. P. I Calm was the sea to which your course you kept, Oh, how much calmer than all southern seas! Many your nameless mates, whom the keen breeze Wafted from mothers that of old have wept. All souls of children taken as they slept Are your companions, partners of your ease, And the green souls of all these autumn trees Are with you through the silent spaces swept. Your virgin body gave its gentle breath Untainted to the gods. Why should we grieve, But that we merit not your holy death? We shall not loiter long, your friends and I; Living you made it goodlier to live, Dead you will make it easier to die. II With you a part of me hath passed away; For in the peopled forest of my mind A tree made leafless by this wintry wind Shall never don again its green array. Chapel and fireside, country road and bay, Have something of their friendliness resigned; Another, if I would, I could not find, And I am grown much older in a day. But yet I treasure in my memory Your gift of charity, and young heart's ease, And the dear honour of your amity; For these once mine, my life is rich with these. And I scarce know which part may greater be,— What I keep of you, or you rob from me. III Your ship lies anchored in the peaceful bight Until a kinder wind unfurl her sail; Your docile spirit, winged by this gale, Hath at the dawning fled into the light. And I half know why heaven deemed it right Your youth, and this my joy in youth, should fail God hath them still, for ever they avail, Eternity hath borrowed that delight. For long ago I taught my thoughts to run Where all the great things live that lived of yore, And in eternal quiet float and soar; There all my loves are gathered into one, Where change is not, nor parting any more, Nor revolution of the moon and sun. IV In my deep heart these chimes would still have rung To toll your passing, had you not been dead; For time a sadder mask than death may spread Over the face that ever should be young. The bough that falls with all its trophies hung Falls not too soon, but lays its flower-crowned head Most royal in the dust, with no leaf shed Unhallowed or unchiselled or unsung. And though the after world will never hear The happy name of one so gently true, Nor chronicles write large this fatal year, Yet we who loved you, though we be but few, Keep you in whatsoe'er is good, and rear In our weak virtues monuments to you. BEFORE A STATUE OF ACHILLES I Behold Pelides with his yellow hair, Proud child of Thetis, hero loved of Jove; Above the frowning of his brows it wove A crown of gold, well combed, with Spartan care. Who might have seen him, sullen, great, and fair, As with the wrongful world he proudly strove, And by high deeds his wilder passion shrove, Mastering love, resentment, and despair. He knew his end, and Phoebus' arrow sure He braved for fame immortal and a friend, Despising life; and we, who know our end, Know that in our decay he shall endure And all our children's hearts to grief inure, With whose first bitter battles his shall blend. II Who brought thee forth, immortal vision, who In Phthia or in Tempe brought thee forth? Out of the sunlight and the sapful earth What god the simples of thy spirit drew? A goddess rose from the green waves, and threw Her arms about a king, to give thee birth; A centaur, patron of thy boyish mirth, Over the meadows in thy footsteps flew. Now Thessaly forgets thee, and the deep Thy keeled bark furrowed answers not thy prayer; But far away new generations keep Thy laurels fresh, where branching Isis hems The lawns of Oxford round about, or where Enchanted Eton sits by pleasant Thames. III I gaze on thee as Phidias of old Or Polyclitus gazed, when first he saw These hard and shining limbs, without a flaw, And cast his wonder in heroic mould. Unhappy me who only may behold, Nor make immutable and fix in awe A fair immortal form no worm shall gnaw, A tempered mind whose faith was never told! The godlike mien, the lion's lock and eye, The well-knit sinew, utter a brave heart Better than many words that part by part Spell in strange symbols what serene and whole In nature lives, nor can in marble die. The perfect body is itself the soul. THE RUSTIC AT THE PLAY Our youth is like a rustic at the play That cries aloud in simple-hearted fear, Curses the villain, shudders at the fray, And weeps before the maiden's wreathed bier. Yet once familiar with the changeful show, He starts no longer at a brandished knife, But, his heart chastened at the sight of woe, Ponders the mirrored sorrows of his life. So tutored too, I watch the moving art Of all this magic and impassioned pain That tells the story of the human heart In a false instance, such as poets feign; I smile, and keep within the parchment furled That prompts the passions of this strutting world. <hr class="chap" /> ODES I What god will choose me from this labouring nation To worship him afar, with inward gladness, At sunset and at sunrise, in some Persian Garden of roses; Or under the full moon, in rapturous silence, Charmed by the trickling fountain, and the moaning Of the death-hallowed cypress, and the myrtle Hallowed by Venus? O for a chamber in an eastern tower, Spacious and empty, roofed in odorous cedar, A silken soft divan, a woven carpet Rich, many-coloured; A jug that, poised on her firm head, a negress Fetched from the well; a window to the ocean, Lest of the stormy world too deep seclusion Make me forgetful! Thence I might watch the vessel-bearing waters Beat the slow pulses of the life eternal, Bringing of nature's universal travail Infinite echoes; And there at even I might stand and listen To thrum of distant lutes and dying voices Chanting the ditty an Arabian captive Sang to Darius. So would I dream awhile, and ease a little The soul long stifled and the straitened spirit, Tasting new pleasures in a far-off country Sacred to beauty. II My heart rebels against my generation, That talks of freedom and is slave to riches, And, toiling 'neath each day's ignoble burden, Boasts of the morrow. No space for noonday rest or midnight watches, No purest joy of breathing under heaven! Wretched themselves, they heap, to make them happy, Many possessions. But thou, O silent Mother, wise, immortal, To whom our toil is laughter,—take, divine one, This vanity away, and to thy lover Give what is needful:— A staunch heart, nobly calm, averse to evil, The windy sky for breath, the sea, the mountain, A well-born, gentle friend, his spirit's brother, Ever beside him. What would you gain, ye seekers, with your striving, Or what vast Babel raise you on your shoulders? You multiply distresses, and your children Surely will curse you. O leave them rather friendlier gods, and fairer Orchards and temples, and a freer bosom! What better comfort have we, or what other Profit in living, Than to feed, sobered by the truth of Nature, Awhile upon her bounty and her beauty, And hand her torch of gladness to the ages Following after? She hath not made us, like her other children, Merely for peopling of her spacious kingdoms, Beasts of the wild, or insects of the summer, Breeding and dying, But also that we might, half knowing, worship The deathless beauty of her guiding vision, And learn to love, in all things mortal, only What is eternal. III Gathering the echoes of forgotten wisdom, And mastered by a proud, adventurous purpose, Columbus sought the golden shores of India Opposite Europe. He gave the world another world, and ruin Brought upon blameless, river-loving nations, Cursed Spain with barren gold, and made the Andes Fiefs of Saint Peter; While in the cheerless North the thrifty Saxon Planted his corn, and, narrowing his bosom, Made covenant with God, and by keen virtue Trebled his riches. What venture hast thou left us, bold Columbus? What honour left thy brothers, brave Magellan? Daily the children of the rich for pastime Circle the planet. And what good comes to us of all your dangers? A smaller earth and smaller hope of heaven. Ye have but cheapened gold, and, measuring ocean, Counted the islands. No Ponce de Leon shall drink in fountains, On any flowering Easter, youth eternal; No Cortes look upon another ocean; No Alexander Found in the Orient dim a boundless kingdom, And, clothing his Greek strength in barbarous splendour, Build by the sea his throne, while sacred Egypt Honours his godhead. The earth, the mother once of godlike Theseus And mighty Heracles, at length is weary, And now brings forth a spawn of antlike creatures, Blackening her valleys, Inglorious in their birth and in their living, Curious and querulous, afraid of battle, Rummaging earth for coals, in camps of hovels Crouching from winter, As if grim fate, amid our boastful prating, Made us the image of our brutish fathers, When from their caves they issued, crazed with terror, Howling and hungry. For all things come about in sacred cycles, And life brings death, and light eternal darkness, And now the world grows old apace; its glory Passes for ever. Perchance the earth will yet for many ages Bear her dead child, her moon, around her orbit; Strange craft may tempt the ocean streams, new forests Cover the mountains. If in those latter days men still remember Our wisdom and our travail and our sorrow, They never can be happy, with that burden Heavy upon them, Knowing the hideous past, the blood, the famine, The ancestral hate, the eager faith's disaster, All ending in their little lives, and vulgar Circle of troubles. But if they have forgot us, and the shifting Of sands has buried deep our thousand cities, Fell superstition then will seize upon them; Protean error, Will fill their panting heart with sickly phantoms Of sudden blinding good and monstrous evil; There will be miracles again, and torment, Dungeon, and fagot,— Until the patient earth, made dry and barren, Sheds all her herbage in a final winter, And the gods turn their eyes to some far distant Bright constellation. IV Slowly the black earth gains upon the yellow, And the caked hill-side is ribbed soft with furrows. Turn now again, with voice and staff, my ploughman, Guiding thy oxen. Lift the great ploughshare, clear the stones and brambles, Plant it the deeper, with thy foot upon it, Uprooting all the flowering weeds that bring not Food to thy children. Patience is good for man and beast, and labour Hardens to sorrow and the frost of winter. Turn then again, in the brave hope of harvest, Singing to heaven. V Of thee the Northman by his beached galley Dreamt, as he watched the never-setting Ursa And longed for summer and thy light, O sacred Mediterranean. Unseen he loved thee; for the heart within him Knew earth had gardens where he might be blessed, Putting away long dreams and aimless, barbarous Hunger for battle. The foretaste of thy languors thawed his bosom; A great need drove him to thy caverned islands From the gray, endless reaches of the outer Desert of ocean. He saw thy pillars, saw thy sudden mountains Wrinkled and stark, and in their crooked gorges, 'Neath peeping pine and cypress, guessed the torrent Smothered in flowers. Thine incense to the sun, thy gathered vapours, He saw suspended on the flanks of Taurus, Or veiling the snowed bosom of the virgin Sister of Atlas. He saw the luminous top of wide Olympus, Fit for the happy gods; he saw the pilgrim River, with rains of Ethiopia flooding Populous Egypt. And having seen, he loved thee. His racked spirit, By thy breath tempered and the light that clothes thee, Forgot the monstrous gods, and made of Nature Mistress and mother. The more should I, O fatal sea, before thee Of alien words make echoes to thy music; For I was born where first the rills of Tagus Turn to the westward, And wandering long, alas! have need of drinking Deep of the patience of thy perfect sadness, O thou that constant through the change of ages, Beautiful ever, Never wast wholly young and void of sorrows, Nor ever canst be old, while yet the morning Kindles thy ripples, or the golden evening Dyes thee in purple. Thee, willing to be tamed but still untamable, The Roman called his own until he perished, As now the busy English hover o'er thee, Stalwart and noble; But all is naught to thee, while no harsh winter Congeals thy fountains, and the blown Sahara Chokes not with dreadful sand thy deep and placid Rock-guarded havens. Thou carest not what men may tread thy margin; Nor I, while from some heather-scented headland I may behold thy beauty, the eternal Solace of mortals. ATHLETIC ODE I hear a rumour and a shout, A louder heart-throb pulses in the air. Fling, Muse, thy lattice open, and beware To keep the morning out. Beckon into the chamber of thy care The bird of healing wing That trilleth there, Blithe happy passion of the strong and fair. Their wild heart singeth. Do thou also sing. How vain, how vain The feeble croaking of a reasoning tongue That heals no pain And prompts no bright deed worthy to be sung Too soon cold earth Refuses flowers. Oh, greet their lovely birth! Too soon dull death Quiets the heaving of our doubtful breath. Deem not its worth Too high for honouring mirth; Sing while the lyre is strung, And let the heart beat, while the heart is young. When the dank earth begins to thaw and yield The early clover, didst thou never pass Some balmy noon from field to sunny field And press thy feet against the tufted grass? So hadst thou seen A spring palaestra on the tender green. Here a tall stripling, with a woman's face, Draws the spiked sandal on his upturned heel, Sure-footed for the race; Another hurls the quoit of heavy steel And glories to be strong; While yet another, lightest of the throng, Crouching on tiptoe for the sudden bound, Flies o'er the level race-course, like the hound, And soon is lost afar; Another jumps the bar, For some god taught him easily to spring, The legs drawn under, as a bird takes wing, Till, tempting fortune farther than is meet, At last he fails, and fails, and vainly tries, And blushing, and ashamed to lift his eyes, Shakes the light earth from his feet. Him friendly plaudits greet And pleasing to the unaccustomed ear. Come then afield, come with the sporting year And watch the youth at play, For gentle is the strengthening sun, and sweet The soul of boyhood and the breath of May. And with the milder ray Of the declining sun, when sky and shore, In purple drest and misty silver-grey, Hang curtains round the day, Come list the beating of the plashing oar, For grief in rhythmic labour glides away. The glancing blades make circles where they dip,— Now flash and drip Cool wind-blown drops into the glassy river, Now sink and cleave, While the lithe rowers heave And feel the boat beneath them leap and quiver. The supple oars in time, Shattering the mirror of the rippled water, Fly, fly as poets climb, Borne by the pliant promise of their rhyme, Or as bewitched by Nereus' loveliest daughter The painted dolphins, following along, Leap to the measure of her liquid song. But the blasts of late October, Tempering summer's paling grief With a russet glow and sober, Bring of these sports the latest and the chief. Then bursts the flame from many a smouldering ember, And many an ardent boy Woos harsher pleasures sweeter to remember, Hugged with a sterner and a tenser joy. Look where the rivals come: Each little phalanx on its chosen ground Strains for the sudden shock, and all around The multitude is dumb. Come, watch the stubborn fight And doubtful, in the sight Of wide-eyed beauty and unstinted love, Ay, the wise gods above, Attentive to this hot and generous fray, Smile on its fortunes and its end prepare, For play is also life, and far from care Their own glad life is play. Ye nymphs and fauns, to Bacchus dear, That woke Cithaeron with your midnight rout, Arise, arise and shout! Your day returns, your haunt is here. Shake off dull sleep and long despair; There is intoxication in this air, And frenzy in this yelping cheer. How oft of old the enraptured Muses sung Olympian victors' praise. Lo! even in these days The world is young. Life like a torrent flung For ever down For ever wears a rainbow for a crown. O idle sigh for loveliness outworn, When the red flush of each unfailing morn Floods every field and grove, And no moon wanes but some one is in love. O wasted tear, A new soul wakes with each awakened year. Beneath these rags, these blood-clots on the face, The valiant soul is still the same, the same The strength, the art, the inevitable grace, The thirst unquenched for fame Quenching base passion, the high will severe, The long obedience, and the knightly flame Of loyalty to honour and a name. Give o'er, ye chords, your music ere ye tire, Be sweetly mute, O lyre. Words soon are cold, and life is warm for ever. One half of honour is the strong endeavour, Success the other, but when both conspire Youth has her perfect crown, and age her old desire. <hr class="chap" /> VARIOUS POEMS CAPE COD The low sandy beach and the thin scrub pine, The wide reach of bay and the long sky line,— O, I am far from home! The salt, salt smell of the thick sea air, And the smooth round stones that the ebbtides wear,— When will the good ship come? The wretched stumps all charred and burned, And the deep soft rut where the cartwheel turned,— Why is the world so old? The lapping wave, and the broad gray sky Where the cawing crows and the slow gulls fly,— Where are the dead untold? The thin, slant willows by the flooded bog, The huge stranded hulk and the floating log,— Sorrow with life began! And among the dark pines, and along the flat shore, O the wind, and the wind, for evermore! What will become of man? A TOAST See this bowl of purple wine, Life-blood of the lusty vine! All the warmth of summer suns In the vintage liquid runs, All the glow of winter nights Plays about its jewel lights, Thoughts of time when love was young Lurk its ruby drops among, And its deepest depths are dyed With delight of friendship tried. Worthy offering, I ween, For a god or for a queen, Is the draught I pour to thee,— Comfort of all misery, Single friend of the forlorn, Haven of all beings born, Hope when trouble wakes at night, And when naught delights, delight. Holy Death, I drink to thee; Do not part my friends and me. Take this gift, which for a night Puts dull leaden care to flight, Thou who takest grief away For a night and for a day. PREMONITION The muffled syllables that Nature speaks Fill us with deeper longing for her word; She hides a meaning that the spirit seeks, She makes a sweeter music than is heard. A hidden light illumines all our seeing, An unknown love enchants our solitude. We feel and know that from the depths of being Exhales an infinite, a perfect good. Though the heart wear the garment of its sorrow And be not happy like a naked star, Yet from the thought of peace some peace we borrow, Some rapture from the rapture felt afar. Our heart strings are too coarse for Nature's fingers Deftly to quicken as she pulses on, And the harsh tremor that among them lingers Will into sweeter silence die anon. We catch the broken prelude and suggestion Of things unuttered, needing to be sung; We know the burden of them, and their question Lies heavy on the heart, nor finds a tongue. Till haply, lightning through the storm of ages, Our sullen secret flash from sky to sky, Glowing in some diviner poet's pages And swelling into rapture from this sigh. SOLIPSISM I could believe that I am here alone, And all the world my dream; The passion of the scene is all my own, And things that seem but seem. Perchance an exhalation of my sorrow Hath raised this vaporous show, For whence but from my soul should all things borrow So deep a tinge of woe? I keep the secret doubt within my breast To be the gods' defence, To ease the heart by too much ruth oppressed And drive the horror hence. O sorrow that the patient brute should cower And die, not having sinned! O pity that the wild and fragile flower Should shiver in the wind! Then were I dreaming dreams I know not of, For that is part of me That feels the piercing pang of grief and love And doubts eternally. But whether all to me the vision come Or break in many beams, The pageant ever shifts, and being's sum Is but the sum of dreams. SYBARIS Lap, ripple, lap, Icarian wave, the sand Along the ruins of this piteous land; Murmur the praises of a lost delight, And soothe the aching of my starved sight With sheen of mirrored beauties, caught aright. Here stood enchanted palaces of old, All veined porphyry and burnished gold; Here matrons and slight maidens sat aloof Beneath cool porches, rich with Tyrian woof Hung from the carven rafters of the roof. Here in a mart a swarthy turbaned brave Showed the wrought blade or praised the naked slave. "Touch with your finger-tips this edge of steel," Quoth he, "and see this lad, from head to heel Like a bronze Cupid. Feel, my masters, feel." Here Aphrodite filled with frenzied love The dark recesses of her murmurous grove. The doves that haunted it, the winds that sighed, Were souls of youths that in her coverts died, And hopes of heroes strewed her garden wide. Under her shades a narrow brazen gate Led to the courts of Ares and of Fate. Who entered breathed the unutterable prayer Of cruel hearts, and death was worshipped there, And men went thence enfranchised by despair. Here the proud athlete in the baths delayed, While a cool fountain on his shoulders played, Then in fine linen swathed his breast and thighs, And silent, myrtle crowned, with serious eyes, Stepped forth to list the wranglings of the wise. A sage stalked by, his ragged mantle bound About his brows; his eyes perused the ground; He conned the number of the cube and square Of the moon's orb; his horny feet and bare Trampled the lilies carpeting the stair. A jasper terrace hung above the sea Where the King supped with his beloved three: The Libyan chanted of her native land In raucous melody, the Indian fanned, And the huge mastiff licked his master's hand. Below, alone, despairing of the gale, A crouching sailor furled the saffron sail; Then rose, breathed deep, and plunged in the lagoon. A mermaid spied his glistening limbs: her croon Enticed him down; her cold arms choked him soon. And the King laughed, filled full his jewelled bowl, And drinking mused: "What know we of the soul? What magic, perfecting her harmony, Have these red drops that so attune her key, Or those of brine that set the wretched free? "If death should change me, as old fables feign, Into some slave or beast, to purge with pain My lordly pleasures, let my torment be Still to behold thee, Sybaris, and see The sacred horror of thy loves and thee. "Be thou my hell, my dumb eternal grief, But spare thy King the madness of belief, The brutish faith of ignorant desire That strives and wanders. Let the visible fire Of beauty torture me. That doom is higher. "I wear the crown of life. The rose and gem Twine with the pale gold of my diadem. Nature, long secret, hath unveiled to me And proved her vile. Her wanton bosoms be My pillow now. I know her, I am free." He spoke, and smiling stretched a languid hand, And music burst in mighty chords and bland Of harp and flute and cymbal.—When between Two cypresses the large moon rose, her sheen Silvered the nymphs' feet, tripping o'er the green. AVILA Again my feet are on the fragrant moor Amid the purple uplands of Castile, Realm proudly desolate and nobly poor, Scorched by the sky's inexorable zeal. Wide desert where a diadem of towers Above Adaja hems a silent town, And locks, unmindful of the mocking hours, Her twenty temples in a granite crown. The shafts of fervid light are in the sky, And in my heart the mysteries of yore. Here the sad trophies of my spirit lie: These dead fulfilled my destiny before. Like huge primeval stones that strew this plain, Their nameless sorrows sink upon my breast, And like this ardent sky their cancelled pain Smiles at my grief and quiets my unrest. For here hath mortal life from age to age Endured the silent hand that makes and mars, And, sighing, taken up its heritage Beneath the smiling and inhuman stars. Still o'er this town the crested castle stands, A nest for storks, as once for haughty souls, Still from the abbey, where the vale expands, The curfew for the long departed tolls, Wafting some ghostly blessing to the heart From prayer of nun or silent Capuchin, To heal with balm of Golgotha the smart Of weary labour and distracted sin. What fate has cast me on a tide of time Careless of joy and covetous of gold, What force compelled to weave the pensive rhyme When loves are mean, and faith and honour old, When riches crown in vain men's sordid lives, And learning chokes a mind of base degree? What winged spirit rises from their hives? What heart, revolting, ventures to be free? Their pride will sink and more ignobly fade Without memorial of its hectic fire. What altars shall survive them, where they prayed? What lovely deities? What riven lyre? Tarry not, pilgrim, but with inward gaze Pass daily, musing, where their prisons are, And o'er the ocean of their babble raise Thy voice in greeting to thy changeless star. Abroad a tumult, and a ruin here; Nor world nor desert hath a home for thee. Out of the sorrows of the barren year Build thou thy dwelling in eternity. Let patience, faith's wise sister, be thy heaven, And with high thoughts necessity alloy. Love is enough, and love is ever given, While fleeting days bring gift of fleeting joy. The little pleasures that to catch the sun Bubble a moment up from being's deep, The glittering sands of passion as they run, The merry laughter and the happy sleep,— These are the gems that, like the stars on fire, Encrust with glory all our heaven's zones; Each shining atom, in itself entire, Brightens the galaxy of sister stones, Dust of a world that crumbled when God's dream To throbbing pulses broke the life of things, And mingled with the void the scattered gleam Of many orbs that move in many rings, Perchance at last into the parent sun To fall again and reunite their rays, When God awakes and gathers into one The light of all his loves and all his days. KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL The buttress frowns, the gorgeous windows blaze, The vaults hang wonderful with woven fans, The four stone sentinels to heaven raise Their heads, in a more constant faith than man's. The College gathers, and the courtly prayer Is answered still by hymn and organ-groan; The beauty and the mystery are there, The Virgin and Saint Nicholas are gone. Not one Ora pro nobis bids them pause In their far flight, to hear this anthem roll; No heart, of all that the King's relic awes, Sings Requiescat to his mournful soul. No grain of incense thrown upon the embers Of their cold hearth, no lamp in witness hung Before their image. One alone remembers; Only the stranger knows their mother tongue. Long rows of tapers light the people's places; The little choristers may read, and mark The rhythmic fall; I see their wondering faces; Only the altar—like the soul—is dark. Ye floating voices through these arches ringing With measured music, subtle, sweet, and strong, Feel ye the inmost reason of your singing? Know ye the ancient burden of your song? The twilight deepens, and the blood-dyed glories Of all these fiery blazonings are dim. Oh, they are jumbled, sad, forgotten stories! Why should ye read them, children? Chant your hymn. But I must con them while the rays of even Kindle aloft some fading jewel-gleam And the vast windows glow a peopled heaven, Rich with the gathering pageant of my dream. Eden I see, where from the leafy cover The green-eyed snake begins to uncoil his length And whispers to the woman and her lover, As they lie musing, large, in peaceful strength. I see their children, bent with toil and terror, Lurking in caves, or heaping madly on The stones of Babel, or the endless error Of Sodom, Nineveh, and Babylon. Here the Egyptian, wedding life with death, Flies from the sun into his painted tomb, And winds the secret of his antique faith Tight in his shroud, and seals in sterile gloom. There the bold prophets of the heart's desire Hail the new Zion God shall build for them, And rapt Isaiah strikes the heavenly lyre, And Jeremiah mourns Jerusalem. Here David's daughter, full of grace and truth, Kneels in the temple, waiting for the Lord; With the first Ave comes the winged youth, Bringing the lily ere he bring the sword. There, to behold the Mother and the Child, The sturdy shepherds down the mountain plod, And angels sing, with voices sweet and wild And wide lips parted: "Glory be to God." Here, mounted on an ass, the twain depart To hallowed Egypt, safe from Herod's wrong; And Mary ponders all things in her heart, And pensive Joseph sadly walks along. There with the Twelve, before his blood is shed, Christ blesses bread and breaks it with his hands, "This is my body." Thomas shakes his head, They marvel all, and no one understands, Save John, whom Jesus loved above the rest. He marvels too, but, seeking naught beside, Leans, as his wont is, on his Master's breast. Ah! the Lord's body also should abide. There Golgotha is dark against the blue In the broad east, above the painted crowd, And many look upon the sign, but few Read the hard lesson of the cross aloud. And from this altar, now an empty tomb, The Lord is risen. Lo! he is not here. No shining angel sitteth in the gloom, No Magdalen in anguish draweth near. All pure in heart, or all in aspect pure, The seemly Christians, kneeling, line the choir, And drop their eyelids, tender and demure, As the low lingering harmonies expire. In that Amen are the last echoes blended Of all the ghostly world. The shades depart Into the sacred night. In peace is ended The long delirious fever of the heart. Then I go forth into the open wold And breathe the vigour of the freshening wind, And with the piling drift of cloud I hold A worship sweeter to the homeless mind, Where the squat willows with their osiers crowned Border the humble reaches of the Cam, And the deep meadows stretching far around Make me forget the exile that I am,— Exile not only from the wind-swept moor Where Guadarrama lifts his purple crest, But from the spirit's realm, celestial, sure Goal of all hope and vision of the best. They also will go forth, these gentle youths, Strong in the virtues of their manful isle, Till one the pathway of the forest smooths, And one the Ganges rules, and one the Nile; And to whatever wilderness they choose Their hearts will bear the sanctities of home, The perfect ardours of the Grecian Muse, The mighty labour of the arms of Rome; But, ah! how little of these storied walls Beneath whose shadow all their nurture was! No, not one passing memory recalls The Blessed Mary and Saint Nicholas. Unhappy King, look not upon these towers, Remember not thine only work that grew. The moving world that feeds thy gift devours, And the same hand that finished overthrew. ON AN UNFINISHED STATUE BY MICHAEL ANGELO IN THE BARGELLO, CALLED AN APOLLO OR A DAVID What beauteous form beneath a marble veil Awaited in this block the Master's hand? Could not the magic of his art avail To unseal that beauty's tomb and bid it stand? Alas! the torpid and unwilling mass Misknew the sweetness of the mind's control, And the quick shifting of the winds, alas! Denied a body to that flickering soul. Fair homeless spirit, harbinger of bliss, It wooed dead matter that they both might live, But dreamful earth still slumbered through the kiss And missed the blessing heaven stooped to give, As when Endymion, locked in dullard sleep, Endured the gaze of Dian, till she turned Stung with immortal wrath and doomed to weep Her maiden passion ignorantly spurned. How should the vision stay to guide the hand, How should the holy thought and ardour stay, When the false deeps of all the soul are sand And the loose rivets of the spirit clay? What chisel shaking in the pulse of lust Shall find the perfect line, immortal, pure? What fancy blown by every random gust Shall mount the breathless heavens and endure? Vain was the trance through which a thrill of joy Passed for the nonce, when a vague hand, unled, Half shaped the image of this lovely boy And caught the angel's garment as he fled. Leave, leave, distracted hand, the baffling stone, And on that clay, thy fickle heart, begin. Mould first some steadfast virtue of thine own Out of the sodden substance of thy sin. They who wrought wonders by the Nile of old, Bequeathing their immortal part to us, Cast their own spirit first into the mould And were themselves the rock they fashioned thus. Ever their docile and unwearied eye Traced the same ancient pageant to the grave, And awe made rich their spirit's husbandry With the perpetual refluence of its wave, Till 'twixt the desert and the constant Nile Sphinx, pyramid, and awful temple grew, And the vast gods, self-knowing, learned to smile Beneath the sky's unalterable blue. Long, long ere first the rapt Arcadian swain Heard Pan's wild music pulsing through the grove, His people's shepherds held paternal reign Beneath the large benignity of Jove. Long mused the Delphic sibyl in her cave Ere mid his laurels she beheld the god, And Beauty rose a virgin from the wave In lands the foot of Heracles had trod. Athena reared her consecrated wall, Poseidon laid its rocky basement sure, When Theseus had the monstrous race in thrall And made the worship of his people pure. Long had the stripling stood in silence, veiled, Hearing the heroes' legend o'er and o'er, Long in the keen palaestra striven, nor quailed To tame the body to the task it bore, Ere soul and body, shaped by patient art, Walked linked with the gods, like friend with friend, And reason, mirrored in the sage's heart, Beheld her purpose and confessed her end. Mould, then, thyself and let the marble be. Look not to frailty for immortal themes, Nor mock the travail of mortality With barren husks and harvesting of dreams. MIDNIGHT The dank earth reeks with three days' rain, The phantom trees are dark and still, Above the darkness and the hill The tardy moon shines out again. O heavy lethargy of pain! O shadows of forgotten ill! My parrot lips, when I was young, To prove and to disprove were bold. The mighty world has tied my tongue, And in dull custom growing old I leave the burning truth untold And the heart's anguish all unsung. Youth dies in man's benumbed soul, Maid bows to woman's broken life, A thousand leagues of silence roll Between the husband and the wife. The spirit faints with inward strife And lonely gazing at the pole. But how should reptiles pine for wings Or a parched desert know its dearth? Immortal is the soul that sings The sorrow of her mortal birth. O cruel beauty of the earth! O love's unutterable stings! IN GRANTCHESTER MEADOWS ON FIRST HEARING A SKYLARK SING Too late, thou tender songster of the sky Trilling unseen, by things unseen inspired, I list thy far-heard cry That poets oft to kindred song hath fired, As floating through the purple veils of air Thy soul is poured on high, A little joy in an immense despair. Too late thou biddest me escape the earth, In ignorance of wrong To spin a little slender thread of song; On yet unwearied wing To rise and soar and sing, Not knowing death or birth Or any true unhappy human thing. To dwell 'twixt field and cloud, By river-willow and the murmurous sedge, Be thy sweet privilege, To thee and to thy happy lords allowed. My native valley higher mountains hedge 'Neath starlit skies and proud, And sadder music in my soul is loud. Yet have I loved thy voice, Frail echo of some ancient sacred joy. Ah, who might not rejoice Here to have wandered, a fair English boy, And breathed with life thy rapture and thy rest Where woven meadow-grasses fold thy nest? But whose life is his choice? And he who chooseth not hath chosen best. SPAIN IN AMERICA WRITTEN AFTER THE DESTRUCTION OF THE SPANISH FLEET IN THE BATTLE OF SANTIAGO, IN 1898 I When scarce the echoes of Manila Bay, Circling each slumbering billowy hemisphere, Had met where Spain's forlorn Armada lay Locked amid hostile hills, and whispered near The double omen of that groan and cheer— Haste to do now what must be done anon Or some mad hope of selling triumph dear Drove the ships forth: soon was Teresa gone, Furor, Pluton, Vizcaya, Oquendo, and Colon. And when the second morning dawned serene O'er vivid waves and foam-fringed mountains, dressed Like Nessus in their robe's envenomed sheen, Scarce by some fiery fleck the place was guessed Where each hulk smouldered; while from crest to crest Leapt through the North the news of victory, Victory tarnished by a boorish jest[1] Yet touched with pity, lest the unkindly sea Should too much aid the strong and leave no enemy. As the anguished soul, that gasped for difficult breath, Passes to silence from its house of pain, So from those wrecks, in fumes of lurid death, Passed into peace the heavy pride of Spain, Passed from that aching tenement, half fain, Back to her castled hills and windy moors, No longer tossed upon the treacherous main Once boasted hers, which with its watery lures Too long enticed her sons to unhallowed sepultures. II Why went Columbus to that highland race, Frugal and pensive, prone to love and ire, Despising kingdoms for a woman's face, For honour riches, and for faith desire? On Spain's own breast was snow, within it fire; In her own eyes and subtle tongue was mirth; The eternal brooded in her skies, whence nigher The trebled starry host admonished earth To shame away her grief and mock her baubles' worth. Ah! when the crafty Tyrian came to Spain To barter for her gold his motley wares, Treading her beaches he forgot his gain. The Semite became noble unawares. Her passion breathed Hamilcar's cruel prayers; Her fiery winds taught Hannibal his vows; Out of her tribulations and despairs They wove a sterile garland for their brows. To her sad ports they fled before the Roman prows. And the Greek coming too forgot his art, And that large temperance which made him wise. The wonder of her mountains choked his heart, The languor of her gardens veiled his eyes; He dreamed, he doubted; in her deeper skies He read unfathomed oracles of woe, And stubborn to the onward destinies, Like some dumb brute before a human foe, Sank in Saguntum's flames and deemed them brighter so. The mighty Roman also when he came, Bringing his gods, his justice, and his tongue, Put off his greatness for a sadder fame, And what a Caesar wrought a Lucan sung. Nor was the pomp of his proud music, wrung From Latin numbers, half so stern and dire, Nor the sad majesties he moved among Half so divine, as her unbreathed desire. Shall longing break the heart and not untune the lyre? When after many conquerors came Christ, The only conqueror of Spain indeed, Not Bethlehem nor Golgotha sufficed To show him forth, but every shrine must bleed And every shepherd in his watches heed The angels' matins sung at heaven's gate. Nor seemed the Virgin Mother wholly freed From taint of ill if born in frail estate, But shone the seraphs' queen and soared immaculate. And when the Arab from his burning sands Swept o'er the waters like a heavenly flail, He took her lute into his conquering hands, And in her midnight turned to nightingale. With woven lattices and pillars frail He screened the pleasant secrets of his bower, Yet little could his subtler arts avail Against the brutal onset of the Giaour. The rose passed from his courts, the muezzin from his tower. Only one image of his wisdom stayed, One only relic of his magic lore,— Allah the Great, whom silent fate obeyed, More than Jehovah calm and hidden more, Allah remained in her heart's kindred core High witness of these terrene shifts of wrong. Into his ancient silence she could pour Her passions' frailty—He alone is strong— And chant with lingering wail the burden of her song. Seizing at Covadonga the rude cross Pelayo raised amid his mountaineers, She bore it to Granada, one day's loss Ransomed with battles of a thousand years. A nation born in harness, fed on tears, Christened in blood, and schooled in sacrifice, All for a sweeter music in the spheres, All for a painted heaven—at a price Should she forsake her loves and sail to Ind for spice? Had Genoa in her merchant palaces No welcome for a heaven-guided son? Had Venice, mistress of the inland seas, No ships for bolder venture? Pisa none? Was sated Rome content? Her mission done? Saw Lusitania in her seaward dreams No floating premonition, beckoning on To vast horizons, gilded yet with gleams Of old Atlantis, whelmed beneath the bubbling streams? Or if some torpor lay upon the South, Tranced by the might of memories divine, Dwelt no shrewd princeling by the marshy mouth Of Scheldt, or by the many mouths of Rhine? Rode Albion not at anchor in the brine Whose throne but now the thrifty Tudor stole Changing a noble for a crafty line? Swarmed not the Norsemen yet about the pole, Seeking through endless mists new havens for the soul? These should have been thy mates, Columbus, these Patrons and partners of thy enterprise, Sad lovers of immeasurable seas, Bound to no hallowed earth, no peopled skies. No ray should reach them of their ladies' eyes In western deserts: no pure minstrel's rhyme, Echoing in forest solitudes, surprise Their heart with longing for a sweeter clime. These, these should found a world who drag no chains of time. In sooth it had seemed folly, to reveal To stubborn Aragon and evil-eyed These perilous hopes, folly to dull Castile Moated in jealous faith and walled in pride, Save that those thoughts, to Spain's fresh deeds allied, Painted new Christian conquests, and her hand Itched for that sword, now dangling at her side, Which drove the Moslem forth and purged the land. And then she dreamed a dream her heart could understand. III Three caravels, a cross upon the prow, A broad cross on the banner and the sail, The liquid fields of Hesperus should plough Borne by the leaping waters and the gale. Before that sign all hellish powers should quail Troubling the deep: no dragon's obscene crest, No serpent's slimy coils should aught avail, Till ivory cities looming in the west Should gleam from high Cathay or Araby the Blest. Then, as with noble mien and debonair The captains from the galleys leapt to land, Or down the temple's alabaster stair Or by the river's marge of silvery sand, Proud Sultans should descend with outstretched hand Greeting the strangers, and by them apprised Of Christ's redemption and the Queen's command, Being with joy and gratitude baptized, Should lavish gifts of price by rarest art devised. Or if (since churls there be) they should demur To some least point of fealty or faith, A champion, clad in arms from crest to spur, Should challenge the proud caitiffs to their death And, singly felling them, from their last breath Extort confession that the Lord is lord, And India's Catholic queen, Elizabeth. Whereat yon turbaned tribes, with one accord, Should beat their heathen breasts and ope their treasures' hoard. Or, if the worst should chance and high debates Should end in insult and outrageous deed, And, many Christians rudely slain, their mates Should summon heaven to their direful need, Suddenly from the clouds a snow-white steed Bearing a dazzling rider clad in flames Should plunge into the fray: with instant speed Rout all the foe at once, while mid acclaims The slaughtered braves should rise, crying, Saint James! Saint James! Then, the day won, and its bright arbiter Vanished, save for peace he left behind, Each in his private bosom should bestir His dearest dream: as that perchance there pined Some lovely maiden of angelic mind In those dark towers, awaiting out of Spain Two Saviours that her horoscope divined Should thence arrive. She (womanlike) were fain Not to be wholly free, but wear a chosen chain. That should be youth's adventure. Riper days Would crave the guerdon of a prouder power And pluck their nuggets from an earthly maze For rule and dignity and children's dower. And age that thought to near the fatal hour Should to a magic fount descend instead, Whose waters with the fruit revive the flower And deck in all its bloom the ashen head, Where a green heaven spreads, not peopled of the dead. IV By such false meteors did those helmsmen steer, Such phantoms filled their vain and vaulting souls With divers ardours, while this brooding sphere Swung yet ungirdled on her silent poles. All journeys took them farther from their goals, All battles won defeated their desire, Barred from one India by the other's shoals, Each sighted star extinguishing its fire, Cape doubled after cape, and never haven nigher. How many galleons sailed to sail no more, How many battles and how many slain, Since first Columbus touched the Cuban shore, Till Araucania felt the yoke of Spain! What mounting miseries! What dwindling gain! To till those solitudes, soon swept of gold, And bear that ardent sun, across the main Slaves must come writhing in the festering hold Of galleys.—Poison works, though men be brave and bold. That slothful planter, once the buccaneer, Lord of his bastards and his mongrel clan, Ignorant, harsh, what could he list or hear Of Europe and the heritage of man? No petty schemer sees the larger plan, No privy tyrant brooks the mightier law, But lash in hand rides forth a partisan Of freedom: base, without the touch of awe, He poisoned first the blood his poniard was to draw. By sloth and lust and mindlessness and pelf Spain sank in sadness and dishonour down, Each in his service serving but himself, Each in his passion striking at her crown. Not that these treasons blotted her renown Emblazoned higher than such hands can reach: There where she reaped but sorrow she has sown The balm of sorrow; all she had to teach She taught the younger world—her faith and heart and speech. And now within her sea-girt walls withdrawn She waits in silence for the healing years, While where her sun has set a second dawn Comes from the north, with other hopes and fears. Spain's daughters stand, half ceasing from their tears, And watch the skies from Cuba to the Horn. "What is this dove or eagle that appears," They seem to cry, "what herald of what morn Hovers o'er Andes' peaks in love or guile or scorn?" "O brooding Spirit, fledgling of the North, Winged for the levels of its shifting light, Child of a labouring ocean and an earth Shrouded in vapours, fear the southward flight, Dread waveless waters and their warm delight, Beware of peaks that cleave the cloudless blue And hold communion with the naked night. The souls went never back that hither flew, But sighing fell to earth or broke the heavens through. "Haunt still thy storm-swept islands, and endure The shimmering forest where thy visions live. Then if we love thee—for thy heart is pure— Thou shalt have something worthy love to give. Thrust not thy prophets on us, nor believe Thy sorry riches in our eyes are fair. Thy unctuous sophists never will deceive A mortal pang, or charm away despair. Not for the stranger's fee we plait our lustrous hair. "But of thy lingering twilight bring some gleam, Memorial of the immaterial fire Lighting thy heart, and to a wider dream Waken the music of our plaintive lyre. Check our rash word, hush, hush our base desire. Hang paler clouds of reverence about Our garish skies: laborious hope inspire That uncomplaining walks the paths of doubt, A wistful heart within, a mailed breast without. "Gold found is dross, but long Promethean art Transmutes to gold the unprofitable ore. Bring labour's joy, yet spare that better part Our mother, Spain, bequeathed to all she bore, For who shall covet if he once adore? Leave in our skies, strange Spirit passing there, No less of vision but of courage more, And of our worship take thy equal share, Thou who would'st teach us hope, with her who taught us prayer." <div class="footnote"> [1] Admiral Sampson said he made a Fourth of July present of the Spanish fleet to the American people, although all the ships had been sunk and none captured. </div> A MINUET ON REACHING THE AGE OF FIFTY I Old Age, on tiptoe, lays her jewelled hand Lightly in mine.—Come, tread a stately measure, Most gracious partner, nobly poised and bland. Ours be no boisterous pleasure, But smiling conversation, with quick glance And memories dancing lightlier than we dance, Friends who a thousand joys Divide and double, save one joy supreme Which many a pang alloys. Let wanton girls and boys Cry over lovers' woes and broken toys. Our waking life is sweeter than their dream. II Dame Nature, with unwitting hand, Has sparsely strewn the black abyss with lights Minute, remote, and numberless. We stand Measuring far depths and heights, Arched over by a laughing heaven, Intangible and never to be scaled. If we confess our sins, they are forgiven. We triumph, if we know we failed. III Tears that in youth you shed, Congealed to pearls, now deck your silvery hair; Sighs breathed for loves long dead Frosted the glittering atoms of the air Into the veils you wear Round your soft bosom and most queenly head; The shimmer of your gown Catches all tints of autumn, and the dew Of gardens where the damask roses blew; The myriad tapers from these arches hung Play on your diamonded crown; And stars, whose light angelical caressed Your virgin days, Give back in your calm eyes their holier rays. The deep past living in your breast Heaves these half-merry sighs; And the soft accents of your tongue Breathe unrecorded charities. Hasten not; the feast will wait. This is a master-night without a morrow. No chill and haggard dawn, with after-sorrow, Will snuff the spluttering candle out, Or blanch the revellers homeward straggling late. Before the rout Wearies or wanes, will come a calmer trance. Lulled by the poppied fragrance of this bower, We'll cheat the lapsing hour, And close our eyes, still smiling, on the dance. December 1913. <hr class="chap" /> TRANSLATIONS FROM MICHAEL ANGELO I "Non so se s'è la desiata luce" I know not if from uncreated spheres Some longed-for ray it be that warms my breast, Or lesser light, in memory expressed, Of some once lovely face, that reappears, Or passing rumour ringing in my ears, Or dreamy vision, once my bosom's guest, That left behind I know not what unrest, Haply the reason of these wayward tears. But what I feel and seek, what leads me on, Comes not of me; nor can I tell aright Where shines the hidden star that sheds this light. Since I beheld thee, sweet and bitter fight Within me. Resolution have I none. Can this be, Master, what thine eyes have done? II "Il mio refugio" The haven and last refuge of my pain (A safe and strong defence) Are tears and supplications, but in vain. Love sets upon me banded with Disdain, One armed with pity and one armed with death, And as death smites me, pity lends me breath. Else had my soul long since departed thence. She pineth to remove Whither her hopes of endless peace abide And beauty dwelleth without beauty's pride, There her last bliss to prove. But still the living fountain of her tears Wells in the heart when all thy truth appears, Lest death should vanquish love. III "Gli occhi miei vaghi delle cose belle" Ravished by all that to the eyes is fair, Yet hungry for the joys that truly bless, My soul can find no stair To mount to heaven, save earth's loveliness. For from the stars above Descends a glorious light That lifts our longing to their highest height And bears the name of love. Nor is there aught can move A gentle heart, or purge or make it wise, But beauty and the starlight of her eyes. FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER ART All things are doubly fair If patience fashion them And care— Verse, enamel, marble, gem. No idle chains endure: Yet, Muse, to walk aright, Lace tight Thy buskin proud and sure. Fie on a facile measure, A shoe where every lout At pleasure Slips his foot in and out! Sculptor, lay by the clay On which thy nerveless finger May linger, Thy thoughts flown far away. Keep to Carrara rare, Struggle with Paros cold, That hold The subtle line and fair. Lest haply nature lose That proud, that perfect line, Make thine The bronze of Syracuse. And with a tender dread Upon an agate's face Retrace Apollo's golden head. Despise a watery hue And tints that soon expire. With fire Burn thine enamel true. Twine, twine in artful wise The blue-green mermaid's arms, Mid charms Of thousand heraldries. Show in their triple lobe Virgin and Child, that hold Their globe, Cross-crowned and aureoled. —All things return to dust Save beauties fashioned well. The bust Outlasts the citadel. Oft doth the ploughman's heel, Breaking an ancient clod, Reveal A Caesar or a god. The gods, too, die, alas! But deathless and more strong Than brass Remains the sovereign song. Chisel and carve and file, Till thy vague dream imprint Its smile On the unyielding flint. <hr class="chap" /> <blockquote> An Essay on the work of GEORGE SANTAYANA, written by EDMUND GOSSE, is, with the kind permission of the author and the proprietors of the Sunday Times, reprinted overleaf. </blockquote> <hr class="tb" /> <h5>A SPANIARD IN ENGLAND</h5> <h5>BY EDMUND GOSSE</h5> (Reprinted by kind permission of the author and of the proprietors of the "Sunday Times.") Only in solitude can soliloquies be appreciated, and Mr. Santayana is not an author for loud streets or for them who tear round the country in a blatant char-à-banc. He avoids even the high roads, and we shall come upon him, if we are lucky, in a grassy hollow of the bank of some dark river, and hear him talking to himself in a voice which disturbs neither the dragon-flies nor the thrushes. He meditates by the hour together on the sunlight in the buttercups, which gives him the illusion of life, or on the hurrying flood of liquid agate, which reminds him of the illusion of death. Everything is a symbol to him, and if he has a volume of poetry open at his side he does not distinguish its verse from the puzzling confidences of the blackbirds, and the insects are dreams which mingle with his own. The activity of existence is arrested for him, and time has become a vain expression. This is his dominant mood, but sometimes he rouses himself and walks to the wayside inn, where he watches the farmers and the travellers, unobserved by them. He notes their ways and their talk with a shrewd and sometimes humorous pertinacity, but they hardly exist for him more vividly than did the thrushes and the dragon-flies. All are dreams, all are in a condition of maia, and the more he tries to distinguish them the more they melt into one. He exists, and he soliloquises, in a mood of perpetual reverie. This is an allegory, and in plain terms Mr. Santayana is a cosmopolitan philosopher of wide reputation. He is the son of a gentleman of Spain, who emigrated to New York. He tells us that his father learned to read English, which implies that he never learned to speak it. The son not only speaks, but writes, our language with an exquisite exactitude and grace, so that he is one of those rare figures, like Mr. Conrad and Mme. Mary Duclaux, who, having adopted in mature years a tongue not theirs by birth, contrive not merely to master but to excel in it. Mr. Santayana was for many years a professor of philosophy in Harvard University, where he showed no mercy to Hegel and was a thorn in the side of the Pragmatists. He is the author of a Life of Reason, in five volumes, which I know that I shall never read, but which I am sure it is safe to recommend to persons younger and more thoughtful than myself. Since he ceased to be a professor, Mr. Santayana has wandered much in Europe, which, distracted as it is, he prefers to America, as quieter. The Great War found him at Oxford, waiting for the spark from heaven and meditating on the importunities of the hour. He stayed there, listening to the whirr of the aeroplanes over Port Meadow, and admiring, perhaps not without envy, the gallant ardour of the youths who started forth so bravely to arrest "the demons of the whirlwind" in France and Gallipoli. He stayed in England, because, glancing over the world, he found England pre-eminently the home of decent happiness, even at that desolating hour. It is amusing to pick out here and there, and put together in a bunch, some of this Hispano-American philosopher's impressions of our race, but we make a mistake if we suppose him largely or generally interested in any particular nation. What makes him attractive, but also a little alarming, is his excessive detachment from the modern life in which he moves so silently and observantly. He is not a social essayist, like Montaigne or Charles Lamb or Stevenson. He is almost obtrusively indifferent to whether he has an audience or not. This makes him, in spite of his extreme attention to moral action, a little inhuman. I do not think that he mentions the Scholar Gipsy, but he has a great deal of the spirit which made that hero of Matthew Arnold's beautiful poem fly the haunts of men. Mr. Santayana will not fly too far; he will see "the line of festal light in Christ Church Hall," before he turns to the woods and the wilds. But the essence of him is solitary, and he escapes from society not that he may forget it, but that, removed from that element in it which seems to kill the mind, he may reflect upon it with the minimum of disturbance. He is anxious to disown the name of metaphysician, but he is a psychologist to the tips of his fingers, and he is still in hopes of discovering a scientific philosophy which may explain to him the apparent discord between man and nature over which he is always brooding. His temper, excessively disturbed by recent events in the political and moral history of the world, may be clearly studied in the very remarkable essay called "War Shrines," and again in "Tipperary," one of the most whimsical and most individual. He started life with a premonition of things noble and tender, and his dreams have often seemed to betray him. But when he has escaped from the fatiguing conventions of life, when he can forget the ugly side of society, his old visions come back to him with smiling eyes, and he can admit that they have kept half their promise. We are so well accustomed to attacks, often very petulant and silly, made against England by Englishmen, that it is quite refreshing to read the impressions of a Spanish philosopher trained in America, who has a much higher opinion of us than we are apt to have of ourselves. Mr. Santayana is prompt to protest that nothing would make him wish to become an Englishman. His birthright was settled at his birth, and we feel that there is that kind of patriotism about him which if he had been born a Mongolian would not allow him to waver in his loyalty to Mongolia. But he has been a sort of Ulysses, and the result of his wanderings is to make him prefer the Englishman to any other human variety. This is decidedly gratifying, and it will amuse the desultory reader to skim Mr. Santayana's pages in search of his impressions of our race. They are not given in dogmatic form, but they are found to be consistent, and, as I say, they are gratifying in the mouth of so shrewd and so disinterested an observer. After traversing many lands he concludes that the English character is the best; it is as strong as the American, and softer, and less obstreperous. He finds the nearest parallel to that old Greek temperament, which he adores, in the English modesty in determination. It seems to rest his spirit to see that we are self-sufficing. Not that he is blind to our national defects, for he thinks that an exquisite or subtle Englishman, although such exist, is a lusus natures. It is not our business to be subtle, and when we are, there is always a tendency in us to become wrong-headed. We turn affected or else puritanical, and these extremes are highly distasteful to Mr. Santayana. <blockquote> "The Englishman travels and conquers without a settled design, because he has the instinct of exploration. His adventures are all external; they change him so little that he is not afraid of them. He carries his English weather in his heart wherever he goes, and it becomes a cool spot in the desert, and a steady and sane oracle amongst all the deliriums of mankind. Never since the heroic days of Greece has the world had such a sweet, just, boyish master. It will be a black day for the human race when scientific blackguards, conspirators, churls, and fanatics manage to supplant him." </blockquote> To give a general idea of Mr. Santayana's essays, I find a difficult task, because of a certain density and uniformity in his expression. He avoids the positive in all its forms. Not merely is he careful not to be dogmatic, but, speaking as he does to and as it were for himself alone, he is apt to combine an exactitude of language with a considerable dilution of thought. He is not averse from the pleasant foible of repeating himself, and as he does this in fresh language the reader, if he is at all censorious, is apt to resent a little the revolving flight of the ideas. Mr. Santayana soliloquises like an aeroplane making graceful curves and daring drops in one section of the ether. His profound scepticism forbids him to alight, for he has no faith in the current assumptions of daily life, and but a very faint interest in facts. He swoops in the light like a swallow, and we must be content to follow his turns and returns, with sympathy for his candour and freshness, and gratitude for his gracious skill. But to define what his object is, though he makes a hundred affirmations of it, is not altogether easy. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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