Ii

EMPRESS of Art, for thee I twine This wreath with all too slender skill. Forgive my Muse each halting line, And for the deed accept the will!

* * * * *

O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim, Parting, like Death’s cold river, souls that love? Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him, By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?

And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame, Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone: And these wild words of fury but proclaim A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!

But all is lost: that mighty mind o’erthrown, Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see! “Doubt that the stars are fire,” so runs his moan, “Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!”

A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile! And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar? And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?

Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers: In holy silence wait the appointed days, And weep away the leaden-footed hours.

III.

THE air is bright with hues of light And rich with laughter and with singing: Young hearts beat high in ecstasy, And banners wave, and bells are ringing: But silence falls with fading day, And there’s an end to mirth and play. Ah, well-a-day

Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones! The kettle sings, the firelight dances. Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught That fills the soul with golden fancies! For Youth and Pleasance will not stay, And ye are withered, worn, and gray. Ah, well-a-day!

O fair cold face! O form of grace, For human passion madly yearning! O weary air of dumb despair, From marble won, to marble turning! “Leave us not thus!” we fondly pray. “We cannot let thee pass away!” Ah, well-a-day!

IV.

MY First is singular at best: More plural is my Second: My Third is far the pluralest— So plural-plural, I protest It scarcely can be reckoned!

My First is followed by a bird: My Second by believers In magic art: my simple Third Follows, too often, hopes absurd And plausible deceivers.

My First to get at wisdom tries— A failure melancholy! My Second men revered as wise: My Third from heights of wisdom flies To depths of frantic folly.

My First is ageing day by day: My Second’s age is ended: My Third enjoys an age, they say, That never seems to fade away, Through centuries extended.

My Whole? I need a poet’s pen To paint her myriad phases: The monarch, and the slave, of men— A mountain-summit, and a den Of dark and deadly mazes—

A flashing light—a fleeting shade— Beginning, end, and middle Of all that human art hath made Or wit devised! Go, seek her aid, If you would read my riddle!