Part 10

MY prayer an old prayer borroweth, Of ancient love and memory— ‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, That come to all men, come to thee.’ Gently as winter’s early breath, Scarce felt, what time the swallows flee, To lands whereof no man knoweth Of summer, over land and sea; So with thy soul may summer be, Even as the ancient singer saith, ‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, That come to all men, come to thee.’

À LA BELLE HÉLÈNE.

AFTER RONSARD.

MORE closely than the clinging vine About the wedded tree, Clasp thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine! About the heart of me. Or seem to sleep, and stoop your face Soft on my sleeping eyes, Breathe in your life, your heart, your grace, Through me, in kissing wise. Bow down, bow down your face, I pray, To me, that swoon to death, Breathe back the life you kissed away, Breathe back your kissing breath. So by your eyes I swear and say, My mighty oath and sure, From your kind arms no maiden may My loving heart allure. I’ll bear your yoke, that’s light enough, And to the Elysian plain, When we are dead of love, my love, One boat shall bear us twain. They’ll flock around you, fleet and fair, All true loves that have been, And you of all the shadows there, Shall be the shadow queen. Ah, shadow-loves and shadow-lips! Ah, while ’tis called to-day, Love me, my love, for summer slips, And August ebbs away.

SYLVIE ET AURÉLIE.

IN MEMORY OF GÉRARD DE NERVAL.

TWO loves there were, and one was born Between the sunset and the rain; Her singing voice went through the corn, Her dance was woven ’neath the thorn, On grass the fallen blossoms stain; And suns may set, and moons may wane, But this love comes no more again.

There were two loves and one made white, Thy singing lips, and golden hair; Born of the city’s mire and light, The shame and splendour of the night, She trapped and fled thee unaware; Not through the lamplight and the rain Shalt thou behold this love again.

Go forth and seek, by wood and hill, Thine ancient love of dawn and dew; There comes no voice from mere or rill, Her dance is over, fallen still The ballad burdens that she knew: And thou must wait for her in vain, Till years bring back thy youth again.

That other love, afield, afar Fled the light love, with lighter feet. Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are, And flit in dreams from star to star, That dead love shalt thou never meet, Till through bleak dawn and blowing rain Thy soul shall find her soul again.

A LOST PATH.

Plotinus, the Greek philosopher, had a certain proper mode of ecstasy, whereby, as Porphyry saith, his soul, becoming free from the deathly flesh, was made one with the Spirit that is in the world.

ALAS, the path is lost, we cannot leave Our bright, our clouded life, and pass away As through strewn clouds, that stain the quiet eve, To heights remoter of the purer day. The soul may not, returning whence she came, Bathe herself deep in Being, and forget The joys that fever, and the cares that fret, Made once more one with the eternal flame That breathes in all things ever more the same. She would be young again, thus drinking deep Of her old life; and this has been, men say, But this we know not, who have only sleep To soothe us, sleep more terrible than day, Where dead delights, and fair lost faces stray, To make us weary at our wakening; And of that long lost path to the Divine We dream, as some Greek shepherd erst might sing, Half credulous, of easy Proserpine, And of the lands that lie ‘beneath the day’s decline.’

THE SHADE OF HELEN.

Some say that Helen went never to Troy, but abode in Egypt; for the gods, having made in her semblance a woman out of clouds and shadows, sent the same to be wife to Paris. For this shadow then the Greeks and Trojans slew each other.

WHY from the quiet hollows of the hills, And extreme meeting place of light and shade, Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and became Clouds among sister clouds, where fair spent beams And dying glories of the sun would dwell, Why have they whom I know not, nor may know, Strange hands, unseen and ruthless, fashioned me, And borne me from the silent shadowy hills, Hither, to noise and glow of alien life, To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war?

One speaks unto me words that would be sweet, Made harsh, made keen with love that knows me not, And some strange force, within me or around, Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh, And somewhere there is fever in the halls That troubles me, for no such trouble came To vex the cool far hollows of the hills.

The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry, That house, and wife, and lands, and all Troy town, Are little to lose, if they may keep me here, And see me flit, a pale and silent shade, Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines.

At other hours another life seems mine, Where one great river runs unswollen of rain, By pyramids of unremembered kings, And homes of men obedient to the Dead. There dark and quiet faces come and go Around me, then again the shriek of arms, And all the turmoil of the Ilian men.

What are they? even shadows such as I. What make they? Even this—the sport of gods— The sport of gods, however free they seem. Ah, would the game were ended, and the light, The blinding light, and all too mighty suns, Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades, Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist, Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills.

SONNETS

SHE.

To H. R. H.

NOT in the waste beyond the swamps and sand, The fever-haunted forest and lagoon, Mysterious Kôr thy walls forsaken stand, Thy lonely towers beneath the lonely moon, Not there doth Ayesha linger, rune by rune Spelling strange scriptures of a people banned. The world is disenchanted; over soon Shall Europe send her spies through all the land.

Nay, not in Kôr, but in whatever spot, In town or field, or by the insatiate sea, Men brood on buried loves, and unforgot, Or break themselves on some divine decree, Or would o’erleap the limits of their lot, There, in the tombs and deathless, dwelleth SHE!

HERODOTUS IN EGYPT.

HE left the land of youth, he left the young, The smiling gods of Greece; he passed the isle Where Jason loitered, and where Sappho sung, He sought the secret-founted wave of Nile, And of their old world, dead a weary while, Heard the priests murmur in their mystic tongue, And through the fanes went voyaging, among Dark tribes that worshipped Cat and Crocodile.

He learned the tales of death Divine and birth, Strange loves of Hawk and Serpent, Sky and Earth, The marriage, and the slaying of the Sun. The shrines of gods and beasts he wandered through, And mocked not at their godhead, for he knew Behind all creeds the Spirit that is One.