Nightingales

Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song: Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart, Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art.

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, As night is withdrawn From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, Dream, while the innumerable choir of day Welcome the dawn.

13

A song of my heart, as the sun peered o’er the sea, Was born at morning to me: And out of my treasure-house it chose A melody, that arose

Of all fair sounds that I love, remembered together In one; and I knew not whether From waves of rustling wheat it was, Recoveringly that pass:

Or a hum of bees in the queenly robes of the lime: Or a descant in pairing time Of warbling birds: or watery bells Of rivulets in the hills:

Or whether on blazing downs a high lark’s hymn Alone in the azure dim: Or a sough of pines, when the midnight wold Is solitary and cold:

Or a lapping river-ripple all day chiding The bow of my wherry gliding Down Thames, between his flowery shores Re-echoing to the oars:

Or anthem notes, wherever in archèd quires The unheeded music twires, And, centuries by, to the stony shade Flies following and to fade:

Or a homely prattle of children’s voices gay ’Mong garden joys at play: Or a sundown chaunting of solemn rooks: Or memory of my books,

Which hold the words that poets in many a tongue To the irksome world have sung: Or the voice, my happy lover, of thee Now separated from me.

A ruby of fire in the burning sleep of my brain Long hid my thought had lain, Forgotten dreams of a thousand days Ingathering to its rays,

The light of life in darkness tempering long; Till now a perfect song, A jewel of jewels it leapt above To the coronal of my love.

14

FOUNDER’S DAY. A SECULAR ODE ON THE NINTH JUBILEE OF ETON COLLEGE

Christ and his Mother, heavenly maid, Mary, in whose fair name was laid Eton’s corner, bless our youth With truth, and purity, mother of truth!

O ye, ’neath breezy skies of June, By silver Thames’s lulling tune, In shade of willow or oak, who try The golden gates of poesy;

Or on the tabled sward all day Match your strength in England’s play, Scholars of Henry, giving grace To toil and force in game or race;

Exceed the prayer and keep the fame Of him, the sorrowful king, who came Here in his realm a realm to found, Where he might stand for ever crowned.

Or whether with naked bodies flashing Ye plunge in the lashing weir; or dashing The oars of cedar skiffs, ye strain Round the rushes and home again;—

Or what pursuit soe’er it be That makes your mingled presence free, When by the schoolgate ’neath the limes Ye muster waiting the lazy chimes;

May Peace, that conquereth sin and death, Temper for you her sword of faith; Crown with honour the loving eyes, And touch with mirth the mouth of the wise.

Here is eternal spring: for you The very stars of heaven are new; And aged Fame again is born, Fresh as a peeping flower of morn.

For you shall Shakespeare’s scene unroll, Mozart shall steal your ravished soul, Homer his bardic hymn rehearse, Virgil recite his maiden verse.

Now learn, love, have, do, be the best; Each in one thing excel the rest: Strive; and hold fast this truth of heaven— To him that hath shall more be given.

Slow on your dial the shadows creep, So many hours for food and sleep, So many hours till study tire, So many hours for heart’s desire.

These suns and moons shall memory save, Mirrors bright for her magic cave; Wherein may steadfast eyes behold A self that groweth never old.

O in such prime enjoy your lot, And when ye leave regret it not; With wishing gifts in festal state Pass ye the angel-sworded gate.

Then to the world let shine your light, Children in play be lions in fight, And match with red immortal deeds The victory that made ring the meads:

Or by firm wisdom save your land From giddy head and grasping hand: IMPROVE THE BEST; so shall your sons Better what ye have bettered once.

Send them here to the court of grace Bearing your name to fill your place: Ye in their time shall live again The happy dream of Henry’s reign:

And on his day your steps be bent Where, saint and king, crowned with content, He biddeth a prayer to bless his youth With truth, and purity, mother of truth.

15

The north wind came up yesternight With the new year’s full moon, And rising as she gained her height, Grew to a tempest soon. Yet found he not on heaven’s face A task of cloud to clear; There was no speck that he might chase Off the blue hemisphere, Nor vapour from the land to drive: The frost-bound country held Nought motionable or alive, That ’gainst his wrath rebelled. There scarce was hanging in the wood A shrivelled leaf to reave; No bud had burst its swathing hood That he could rend or grieve: Only the tall tree-skeletons, Where they were shadowed all, Wavered a little on the stones, And on the white church-wall.

—Like as an artist in his mood, Who reckons all as nought, So he may quickly paint his nude, Unutterable thought: So Nature in a frenzied hour By day or night will show Dim indications of the power, That doometh man to woe. Ah, many have my visions been, And some I know full well: I would that all that I have seen Were fit for speech to tell.—

And by the churchyard as I came, It seemed my spirit passed Into a land that hath no name, Grey, melancholy and vast; Where nothing comes: but Memory, The widowed queen of Death, Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eye All slumber banisheth.

Each grain of writhen dust, that drapes That sickly, staring shore, Its old chaotic change of shapes Remembers evermore. And ghosts of cities long decayed, And ruined shrines of Fate Gather the paths, that Time hath made Foolish and desolate. Nor winter there hath hope of spring, Nor the pale night of day, Since the old king with scorpion sting Hath done himself away.

* * * * *

The morn was calm; the wind’s last breath Had fal’n: in solemn hush The golden moon went down beneath The dawning’s crimson flush.

16