Cxliv

Yea, far upon her wings then I was borne All dreamlessly till, like a dream, the morn Broke on my sense and sight, and swift and loud, Day, like a hunter, blew his golden horn.

THE sullen winter nearly spent, Queen Flora to her garden went To call the flowers from their long sleep, The year’s glad festivals to keep: And one by one each making bold Their silken vesture to unfold, And peeping forth to meet the sun, The long procession is begun:—

The snowdrops, first upon the scene, White-crested braved King Frost’s demesne:

The little Crocus reaches up To catch a sunbeam in his cup:

The Daffodil his trumpet blows, And after spring a-hunting goes:

Anemones rode out the gale, Frail wind-flowers fluttered, red and pale:

The Violet and the Primrose dame, With modest mien but hearts a-flame:

Green kirtled from the brooklet’s fold, The rustic maid Marsh Marigold:

The “Lady smocks all silver white” The milkmaids of the meadows bright,

Where shining Buttercups abound Among the Cowslips on the ground.

Here, Lords and Ladies of the wood, With shaking spear and riding hood:

Black knight-at-arms, the white-plumed Thorn; In pomp the Crown Imperial borne.

While Tulips lift the banner red, Or fill their cups with fire instead:

Sweet Hyacinths their bells did ring, To swell the music of the spring.

With blazoned pennons from each spear The Iris and the Flag appear:

Sweet masking May, in white or red, Her snowy cloud of blossom spread:

And Chaucer’s Daisy, small and sweet— “Si douce est la Margarete.”

The little Lilies of the Vale, White ladies delicate and pale.

Great Peonies in crimson pride, And budding ones in green that hide:

Fair Columbines that drew the car Of Venus from her distant star:

And Love’s own flower, the blushing Rose, The Queen of all the garden close:

And Roses from the hedgerow wild, Behind their thorns that faintly smiled:

And from the cressy brook’s green side, “Forget-me-Not,” a small voice cried.

Here stately Lilies pale and proud, In vesture pure as summer cloud;

Or, burning like an orange flame, With torches borne aloft they came.

The Monk that wears the Hood of blue, The Belles of Canterbury, too:

Wide Oxeyes in the meads that gaze On scarlet Poppy heads ablaze:

Ere Evening Primrose lights her lamp, A beacon to the garden camp:

When Lilies of the Day are done, And sunk the golden westering sun:

Fresh Pinks cast incense on the air, In fluttering garments fringed and rare.

Their cousin from the corn in blue; Corn Marigold of golden hue.

The fond Convolvulus still clings, The Honeysuckle spreads his wings:

The Hollyhock his standard high, Rears proudly to the autumn sky:

The blazing Sunflower, black and bold, Burns yet to win the sunset’s gold,

That, reddening on the Triton’s spear Foretells the waning of the year:

When Lilies, turned to Tigers, blaze Amid the garden’s tangled maze;

Where still in triumph, stiff with gold, The rich Chrysanthemums unfold;

Ere doth the floral pageant close With one last flower—a Christmas Rose.

FROM sea to sea our steamer glides, The Adriatic laves her sides, Her engines, deep pulsating, beat, A throbbing heart of fire and heat; Its freight of human hearts to bear With good and ill as time doth wear. Still changeful as the changing seas Beneath the wayward winds’ increase, Or like the bird that eastward flies, Our thoughts fare backward with our eyes Which still the blue Ægean holds; Round Grecian isles its cincture folds, Where on Sunium falls the light, And carves anew the columns white; Where the gulf of Nauplia fills The sculptured sides of Argos’ hills; And through their gates thrown back do show Fair gardens rich and trees arow, Where yet in waking dreams one sees The Apples of Hesperides, With but the gleaming scales between Of water in the sunsets’ sheen.

Past the twinkling lights that show, Like stars to mock celestial glow, And light us back to antique ground— To Tiryn’s buried ruins found, And Agamemnon’s house of old, With treasures of Mykenæ’s gold, Where stands the lion-guarded gate, To keep the city’s shattered state, Among the lonely hills forgot Of ages long, as it were not. Hill and dale dissolving glide, As the winged wheels swiftly slide, By Nemæan crags that still The legendary echoes fill. Or by Corinth’s fortressed steep, And shattered temple, still that keep The record of her ancient fame, Her glory past into a name.

What oracle from Delphi hear? What message from Apollo bear? Speaks no more the god of light? Doth he no word to men indite? Yea, day by day his arrows’ flight Behold! Dividing dark and bright, Till they strike Athena’s fanes— Still upon the rock she reigns, Though, alas! Her house of state, Empty is, and desolate: Fair still her shrine of marble shines, Whenas the sun-like moon defines With opal lights and shadows blue That well nigh build the temple new, Which day by day o’erlays with gold As in the sun’s bright flame of old. Many a morn and eve have we Watched him rise and set at sea, His foaming steeds with tossing crests Turn fire the watery way they breast, Where dolphins leaping drive the spray Before them in their wanton play. What if the ancient gods no more Are seen of men on sea or shore? What if a sterner creed and cold Did drive them from the Temple’s fold? Or pride of rule, or curse of gold, With wasting care that makes youth old, Do blind men’s eyes to all save gain, And beauty pleads with them in vain? Though greed would all the earth degrade And see the world a market made, And drive the peasant from his soil, And lay the yoke of hopeless toil Upon the millions seeking bread, To art and love and beauty dead; Not all has gone while these have hold In some true hearts not bought and sold.

Though fallen, Aphrodité’s shrines Still through the opal wave she shines, Or, veiled in light doth sail the blue Where breaks the foam in iris hue; And still from dangerous rocks is heard The siren’s song Odysseus feared, Far wandering from his sea-girt home In Ithaca across the foam. The same stars shine above his head As watch us on our rocking bed; As turned his thoughts to child and wife, And homestead dear, and pleasant life; So, tossing on the houseless seas Sweet thoughts of home our hearts do please.

·RONDEAUS· ·RONDELS· & TRIOLET· ]