Iv

Great men of song, what sing ye? Woodland meadows? Rocks, trees and rills where sunlight glints to gold? Sing ye the hills adown whose sides blue shadows Creep when the westering day is growing old? Sing ye the brooks where in the purling shallows The small fish dart and gleam? Sing ye the pale green tresses of the willows That stoop to kiss the stream?

Or sing ye burning streets and sweating toil Where we spawned swarms of men, unendingly, Above, below, in mart and workshop’s moil Have quite forgot thee, O mine Arcady?...

My Garden.

With a copy of “Sonnets of this Century.”

This little book, a Garden where the bloom And fragrance of an hundred years are pent, To thee, dear girl, at Christmas-tide is sent By one who breathes with love the sweet perfume Of such frail flowers. Let aye the world consume Itself with toil and labour--such are all Without the bounds of this my garden-wall, And I, in light, feel not nor heed their gloom.

Come thou into my Garden! Let me show Thee all the treasures that do lend it grace, These goodly Sonnets, standing in a row To tell of joy, tears, love,--life’s madrigal; And, mistress of the pure enchanted place, Be thou the fairest Flower among them all!...

Erinnerungen.

Schwer ist mein Herz, und heute kann ich nicht Mehr lesen--kann nicht denken, leiden mehr. Aus jeder Ecke kommt ein Schatten her, Wie aus dem toten Himmel geht das Licht. Ich sinn’ und sinn’--ich sehe ihn noch, wie er Vor langen Jahren zartlich schaut’ mich an Eh’ unsere reine Liebe erst begann Langsam zu sterben, ich zu trauern sehr...

Schwer ist mein Herz. Aus seinen Ecken auch Kriechen die Schatten, schnell und schneller. Jetzt Vernimmt mein müdes Ohr den ersten Hauch Der Winternacht ... Es glimmert Strom und Wald In dunkler Ferne ... Dies vergeht zuletzt, Und alles endlich finster ist und kalt...

The Battle Royal.

Thou Battle Royal! Kings and gentlemen At arms, and lords have fought thee since the mists Of time, back-rolling, show’d thy mimic lists And pigmy warriors, mazed and harried then As now in meshes of thy checkered strife-- Unshielded Pawns, trim Knights and frowning Rooks Stolid yet quick, and Bishops smug, with looks A-squint, and King with lame yet endless life.

Thou Battle Royal! Years unnumbered soil Cards, draughts and dice with myriad grime-worn hands. Thou, lov’d by dames and lords in all the lands Of this broad world art still the world’s best play; Where, as in life, whilst others struggle, toil, And die, the imperious Queen controls the day!

España.

“Que era, decidme, la nación que un día Reina del mundo proclamó el destino?...”

Quintana--Oda a España.

Where now that Nation proud which Destiny Once did proclaim this world’s all conquering queen? Where now that sceptre, that bright blazon seen That mark’d her mistress over land and sea? A lost emprise, a shattered galleon she, Sails rent and hull agape that once have been World-powerful; her rotting masts careen With each dark surge of long-pent enmity.

On through sea’s salty wastes the tempests spurn, The waves rebuff her; lights no more there gleam Nor vergies wave on her high carven beam. Stilled is the sailor’s jest, the skipper’s song; In swirling fogs of night she drives along With Helmsman Death stark-frozen at the stern!...

Love’s Fear.

Virgin art thou and pure, amid a throng Of such sweet hallowed names as all men praise. (Grown all too scant in these our latter days!) To holy hours of old dost thou belong; Saint Agnès then had heard thine even-song, Nor left thee, darkling, in Earth’s devious ways. Thou’rt one with that sweet sisterhood which raise To “untouched Dian,” all clear streams along, Their full-voiced anthem. Thou a Vestal art At true-love’s altar. Atala, and the Maid, And Mary all are sisters of thy blood! Thy very name is virgin!... I, afraid, How shall I press my kisses on thy heart, Or loose the girdle of thy maidenhood?...

Longings.

“... Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria...” Inferno, V, 121.

Far from the sea-girt City that I love, My wandering ways by care attended lie; Cold is the azure of this foreign sky, And strange these clustered stars that burn above. Out from this loveless land would I remove To seek thy spring Pierian, never-dry, Thou thrice-crowned City! Hear my fainting cry. Let not my passionate longing fruitless prove! Would I once more might see the dome of gold Burning aloft, beneath my native sky! The river, winding near my home of old, And once again to breathe before I die, The evening breeze, may it be granted me, In that fair city by the distant sea!...

The Eighth Ode of the Fourth Book of Horace.

TO C. MARTIUS CENSORINUS.

“Donarem pateras grataque commodus...”

Freely to my companions would I give Beautiful bronzes, Censorinus, bowls And tripods, once a guerdon to the souls Of hardy Greeks; nor should’st thou bear away The meanest of my gifts, could I but live Possessed of arts like those Parrhasius plied, Or Skopas, now depicting human clay And now a god, in liquid colors one In solid stone the other. But denied To me are equal powers; need hast thou none In mind or state for treasures like to these. Thou dost delight in songs, and such are mine To give, and fix a value to each song. Not marbles carved with public elegies, Whence to illustrious leaders still belong In dreamless death their praises half divine, Not the precipitate flights of Hannibal Nor those retorted threats that wrought him shame, Not impious Carthage and her flaming fall More highly show, than the Calabrian Muse, Glories of him who, having gained a name From prostrate conquered Africa, returned. Neither if writings should perchance refuse To herald forth what thou so well hast earned Wouldst thou have fitting praise. What were the son Of Mars and Ilia, if in jealousy Silence had drowned those lofty merits won By Romulus? Through eloquence, through strength And favor of all poets loved of fame, Aeacus hallowed is, from Stygian floods, To the fair Islands of the Blest at length.

The Muse forbids the worthy man to die; She blesseth him with Heaven. Thus Hercules, Untiring victor, finds a place on high At Jove’s desired feasts. Tyndareus’ sons, Clear-shining stars, thus from the deepest seas Rescue the shattered ships. Thus Bacchus fair, Twining his temples with fresh vine-leaves green, To fruitful issue brings the votaries’ prayer.

Ricordatevi Di Me!

(Terza Rima.)

If ever thou shouldst cease to think of me With love, and turn thy soul’s sweet warmth to ice-- (Stop not my mouth with kisses! Change may be,

As all do know who take for their device A bleeding heart!)--If any change should seal To me the gates of uttermost Paradise,

And I should darkling fare, with no repeal, In company of them, that, love forsaken, Before cold shrines and at dead altars kneel,

Remember this--I bade thy heart awaken; Here in this hand it lay a prisoner! Thy first wild love-kiss from my lips was taken,

And with my breath thy first sighs mingled were! Remember this--I loved thee well and long, Thou haven to me, a time-worn wanderer!

Then, though my voice be drowned in that clear song Of thy new love, and I forgotten be Or all-despisèd, think thou in my wrong

Some good there was, some truth akin with thee, Some light half-seen, since I could tune a soul Virgin as thine to perfect harmony, And crown thy brow with Love’s pure aureole!

The Tower.