ANTEROS.
I.
This is the feast-day of my soul and me,
For I am half a god and half a man.
These are the hours in which are heard by sea,
By land and wave, and in the realms of space,
The lute-like sounds which sanctify my span,
And give me power to sway the human race.
II.
I am the king whom men call Lucifer,
I am the genius of the nether spheres.
Give me my Christian name, and I demur.
Call me a Greek, and straightway I rejoice.
Yea, I am Anteros, and with my tears
I salt the earth that gladdens at my voice.
III.
I am old Anteros; a young, old god;
A sage who smiles and limps upon a crutch.
But I can turn my crutch into a rod,
And change my rod into a crown of wood.
Yea, I am he who conquers with a touch,
And plays with poisons till he makes them good.
IV.
The sun, uprising with his golden hair,
Is mine apostle; and he serves me well.
Thoughts and desires of mine, beyond compare,
Thrill at his touch. The moon, so lost in thought,
Has pined for love; and wanderers out of hell,
And saints from heaven, have known what I have taught.
V.
Great are my griefs; my joys are multiplex;
And beasts and birds and men my subjects are;
Yea, all created things that have a sex,
And flies and flowers and monsters of the mere;
All these, and more, proclaim me from afar,
And sing my marriage songs from year to year.
VI.
There are no bridals but the ones I make;
For men are quicken'd when they turn to me.
The soul obeys me for its body's sake,
And each is form'd for each, as day for night.
'Tis but the soul can pay the body's fee
To win the wisdom of a fool's delight.
VII.
Yea, this is so. My clerks have set it down,
And birds have blabbed it to the winds of heaven.
The flowers have guessed it, and, in bower and town,
Lovers have sung the songs that I have made.
Give me your lives, O mortals, and, for leaven,
Ye shall receive the fires that cannot fade.
VIII.
O men! O maidens! O ye listless ones!
Ye who desert my temples in the East,
Ye who reject the rays of summer suns,
And cling to shadows in the wilderness;
Why are ye sad? Why frown ye at the feast,
Ye who have eyes to see and lips to press?
IX.
Why, for a wisdom that ye will not prove,
A joy that crushes and a love that stings,
A freak, a frenzy in a fated groove,
A thing of nothing born of less than nought—
Why in your hearts do ye desire these things,
Ye who abhor the joys that ye have sought?
X.
See, see! I weep, but I can jest at times;
Yea, I can dance and toss my tears away.
The sighs I breathe are fragrant as the rhymes
Of men and maids whose hearts are overthrown.
I am the God for whom all maidens pray,
But none shall have me for herself alone.
XI.
No; I have love enough, here where I stand,
To marry fifty maids in their degree;
Aye, fifty times five thousand in a band,
And every bride the proxy of a score.
Want ye a mate for millions? I am he.
Glory is mine, and glee-time evermore.
XII.
O men! O masters! O ye kings of grief!
Ye who control the world but not the grave,
What have ye done to make delight so brief,
Ye who have spurn'd the minstrel and the lyre?
I will not say: "Be patient." Ye are brave;
And ye shall guess the pangs of my desire.
XIII.
There shall be traitors in the court of love,
And tears and torture and the bliss of pain.
The maids of men shall seek the gods above,
And drink the nectar of the golden lake.
Blessed are they for whom the gods are fain;
They shall be glad for love's and pity's sake.
XIV.
They shall be taught the songs the syrens know,
The wave's lament, the west wind's psalmistry,
The secrets of the south and of the snow,
The wherewithal of day, and death, and night.
O men! O maidens! pray no prayer for me,
But sing to me the songs of my delight.
XV.
Aye, sing to me the songs I love to hear,
And let the sound thereof ascend to heaven.
And let the singers, with a voice of cheer,
Announce my name to all the ends of earth;
And let my servants, seventy times and seven,
Re-shout the raptures of my Samian mirth!
XVI.
Let joy prevail, and Frenzy, like a flame,
Seize all the souls of men for sake of me.
For I will have Contention put to shame,
And all the hearts of all things comforted.
There are no laws but mine on land and sea,
And men shall crown me when their kings are dead.
THE WAKING OF THE LARK.
I.
O bonnie bird, that in the brake, exultant, dost prepare thee—
As poets do whose thoughts are true, for wings that will upbear thee—
Oh! tell me, tell me, bonnie bird,
Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred?
Or canst thou sing of naught but Spring among the golden meadows?
II.
Methinks a bard (and thou art one) should suit his song to sorrow,
And tell of pain, as well as gain, that waits us on the morrow;
But thou art not a prophet, thou,
If naught but joy can touch thee now;
If, in thy heart, thou hast no vow that speaks of Nature's anguish.
III.
Oh! I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, tho' poor and slighted,
The songs we love are those we hear when love is unrequited.
But thou art still the slave of dawn,
And canst not sing till night be gone,
Till o'er the pathway of the fawn the sunbeams shine and quiver.
IV.
Thou art the minion of the sun that rises in his splendour,
And canst not spare for Dian fair the songs that should attend her.
The moon, so sad and silver-pale,
Is mistress of the nightingale;
And thou wilt sing on hill and dale no ditties in the darkness.
V.
For Queen and King thou wilt not spare one note of thine outpouring;
Thou art as free as breezes be on Nature's velvet flooring.
The daisy, with its hood undone,
The grass, the sunlight, and the sun—
These are the joys, thou holy one, that pay thee for thy singing.
VI.
Oh, hush! Oh, hush! how wild a gush of rapture in the distance,—
A roll of rhymes, a toll of chimes, a cry for love's assistance;
A sound that wells from happy throats,
A flood of song where beauty floats,
And where our thoughts, like golden boats, do seem to cross a river.
VII.
This is the advent of the lark—the priest in gray apparel—
Who doth prepare to trill in air his sinless Summer carol;
This is the prelude to the lay
The birds did sing in Cæsar's day,
And will again, for aye and aye, in praise of God's creation.
VIII.
O dainty thing, on wonder's wing, by life and love elated,
Oh! sing aloud from cloud to cloud, till day be consecrated;
Till from the gateways of the morn,
The sun, with all his light unshorn,
His robes of darkness round him torn, doth scale the lofty heavens!
A BALLAD OF KISSES.
I.
There are three kisses that I call to mind,
And I will sing their secrets as I go.
The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind,
Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know;
As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow.
II.
The second kiss, ah God! I feel it yet,
And evermore my soul will loathe the same.
The toys and joys of fate I may forget,
But not the touch of that divided shame:
It clove my lips; it burnt me like a flame.
III.
The third, the final kiss, is one I use
Morning and noon and night; and not amiss.
Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse!
And when I die, be love, enrapt in bliss,
Re-sanctified in Heaven by such a kiss.
MARY ARDEN.
I.
O thou to whom, athwart the perish'd days
And parted nights long sped, we lift our gaze,
Behold! I greet thee with a modern rhyme,
Love-lit and reverent as befits the time,
To solemnize the feast-day of thy son.
II.
And who was he who flourish'd in the smiles
Of thy fair face? 'Twas Shakespeare of the Isles,
Shakespeare of England, whom the world has known
As thine, and ours, and Glory's, in the zone
Of all the seas and all the lands of earth.
III.
He was un-famous when he came to thee,
But sound, and sweet, and good for eyes to see,
And born at Stratford, on St. George's Day,
A week before the wondrous month of May;
And God therein was gracious to us all.
IV.
He lov'd thee, Lady! and he lov'd the world;
And, like a flag, his fealty was unfurl'd;
And Kings who flourished ere thy son was born
Shall live through him, from morn to furthest morn,
In all the far-off cycles yet to come.
V.
He gave us Falstaff, and a hundred quips,
A hundred mottoes from immortal lips;
And, year by year, we smile to keep away
The generous tears that mind us of the sway
Of his great singing, and the pomp thereof.
VI.
His was the nectar of the gods of Greece,
The lute of Orpheus, and the Golden Fleece
Of grand endeavour; and the thunder-roll
Of words majestic, which, from pole to pole,
Have borne the tidings of our English tongue.
VII.
He gave us Hamlet; and he taught us more
Than schools have taught us; and his fairy-lore
Was fraught with science; and he called from death
Verona's Lovers, with the burning breath
Of their great passion that has filled the spheres.
VIII.
He made us know Cordelia, and the man
Who murder'd sleep, and baleful Caliban;
And, one by one, athwart the gloom appear'd
Maidens and men and myths who were revered
In olden days, before the earth was sad.
IX.
Aye! this is true. It was ordainèd so;
He was thine own, three hundred years ago;
But ours to-day; and ours till earth be red
With doom-day splendour for the quick and dead,
And days and nights are scattered like the leaves.
X.
It was for this he lived, for this he died;
To raise to Heaven the face that never lied,
To lean to earth the lips that should become
Fraught with conviction when the mouth was dumb,
And all the firm, fine body turn'd to clay.
XI.
He lived to seal, and sanctify the lives
Of perish'd maids, and uncreated wives,
And gave them each a space wherein to dwell;
And for his mother's sake he loved them well,
And made them types, undying, of all truth.
XII.
O fair and fond young mother of the boy
Who wrought all this—O Mary!—in thy joy
Did'st thou perceive, when, fitful from his rest,
He turn'd to thee, that his would be the best
Of all men's chanting since the world began?
XIII.
Did'st thou, O Mary! with the eye of trust
Perceive, prophetic, through the dark and dust
Of things terrene, the glory of thy son,
And all the pride therein that should be won
By toilsome men, content to be his slaves?
XIV.
Did'st thou, good mother! in the tender ways
That women find to fill the fleeting days,
Behold afar the Giant who should rise
With foot on earth, and forehead in the skies,
To write his name, and thine, among the stars?
XV.
I love to think it; and, in dreams at night
I see thee stand, erect, and all in white,
With hands out-yearning to that mighty form,
As if to draw him back from out the storm,—
A child again, and thine to nurse withal.
XVI.
I see thee, pale and pure, with flowing hair,
And big, bright eyes, far-searching in the air
For thy sweet babe, and, in a trice of time,
I see the child advance to thee, and climb,
And call thee "Mother!" in ecstatic tones.
XVII.
Yet, if my thought be vain—if, by a touch
Of this weak hand, I vex thee overmuch—
Forbear the blame, sweet Spirit! and endow
My heart with fervour while to thee I bow
Athwart the threshold of my fading dream.
XVIII.
For, though so seeming-bold in this my song,
I turn to thee with reverence, in the throng
Of words and thoughts, as shepherds scann'd, afar,
The famed effulgence of that eastern star
Which usher'd in the Crown'd One of the heavens.
XIX.
In dreams of rapture I have seen thee pass
Along the banks of Avon, by the grass,
As fair as that fair Juliet whom thy son
Endow'd with life, but with the look of one
Who knows the nearest way to some new grave.
XX.
And often, too, I've seen thee in the flush
Of thy full beauty, while the mother's "Hush!"
Hung on thy lip, and all thy tangled hair
Re-clothed a bosom that in part was bare
Because a tiny hand had toy'd therewith!
XXI.
Oh! by the June-tide splendour of thy face
When, eight weeks old, the child in thine embrace
Did leap and laugh, O Mary! by the same,
I bow to thee, subservient to thy fame,
And call thee England's Pride for evermore!
SACHAL.
A WAIF OF BATTLE.
I.
Lo! at my feet,
A something pale of hue;
A something sad to view;
Dead or alive I dare not call it sweet.
II.
Not white as snow;
Not transient as a tear!
A warrior left it here,
It was his passport ere he met the foe.
III.
Here is a name,
A word upon the book;
If ye but kneel to look,
Ye'll find the letters "Sachal" on the same.
IV.
His Land to cherish,
He died at twenty-seven.
There are no wars in Heaven,
But when he fought he gain'd the right to perish.
V.
Where was he born?
In France, at Puy le Dôme.
A wanderer from his home,
He found a Fatherland beyond the morn.
VI.
'Twas France's plan;
The cause he did not ask.
His life was but a mask,
And he upraised it, martyr'd at Sedan.
VII.
And prone in death,
Beyond the name of France,
Beyond his hero-glance,—
He thought, belike, of her who gave him breath.
VIII.
O thou dead son!
O Sachal! far away,
But not forgot to-day,
I had a mother, too, but now have none.
IX.
Our hopes are brave.
Our faiths are braver still.
The soul shall no man kill;
For God will find us, each one in his grave.
X.
A land more vast
Than Europe's kingdoms are,—
A brighter, nobler star
Than victory's fearful light,—is thine at last.
XI.
And should'st thou meet
Yon Germans up on high,—
Thy foes when death was nigh,—
Nor thou nor they will sound the soul's retreat.
XII.
For all are just,
Yea, all are patriots there,
And thou, O Fils de Pierre!
Hast found thy marshal's baton in the dust.
XIII.
Oh, farewell, friend;
My friend, albeit unknown,
Save in thy death alone,
Oh, fare thee well till sin and sorrow end.
XIV.
In realms of joy
We'll meet; aye, every one:
Mother and sire and son,—
And my poor mother, too, will claim her boy.
XV.
Death leads to God.
Death is the Sword of Fate,
Death is the Golden Gate
That opens up to glory, through the sod.
XVI.
And thou that road,
O Sachal! thou hast found;
A king is not so crown'd
As thou art, soldier! in thy blest abode.
XVII.
Deathless in death,
Exalted, not destroy'd,
Thou art in Heaven employ'd
To swell the songs of angels with thy breath.
THE LADY OF THE MAY.
I.
O stars that fade in amber skies
Because ye dread the light of day,
O moon so lonely and so wise,
Look down, and love my Love alwày;
Salute the Lady of the May.
II.
O lark that soarest in the light
To hail thy lord in his array,
Look down; be just; and sing aright.
A lover claims thy song to-day
To greet his Lady of the May.
III.
"O lady! lady!" sings the lark,
"Thy lover's hest I do obey;
For thou art splendid after dark,
And where thou smilest, there is day;
And thou'rt the Lady of the May.
IV.
"The nightingale's a friend of mine,
And yesternight she flew my way.
'Awake,' she cried, 'at morning shine
And sing for me thy blythest lay
To greet the Lady of the May.'
V.
"'And tell her, tell her, gentle one,
While thou attun'st thy morning lay,
That I will sing at set of sun
Another song for thy sweet fay,
Because she's Lady of the May.'
VI.
"And lo I come," the lark in air,
Self-pois'd and free, did seem to say,
"I come to greet thy lady's hair
And call its beams the light of day
Which decks thy Lady of the May."
VII.
Oh, thank thee, bird that singest well!
For all thou say'st and still would'st say
And for the thoughts which Philomel
Intends to trill, in roundelay,
To greet my Lady of the May.
VIII.
We two (my Love and I) are one,
And so shall be, for aye and aye.
Go, take my homage to the sun,
And bid him shine his best to-day,
To crown my Lady of the May!
AN ODE TO ENGLISHMEN.
I.
I who have sung of love and lady bright
And mirth and music and the world's delight,
Behold! to-day, I sound a sterner note
To move the minds of foemen when they fight.
II.
Have I not said: There is no sweeter thing,
And none diviner than the wedding-ring?
And, all intent to make my meaning plain,
Have I not kiss'd the lips of Love, the King?
III.
Yea, this is so. But lo! to-day there comes
The far-off sound of trumpets and of drums;
And I must parley with the men of toil
Who rise in ranks exultant from the slums.
IV.
I must arraign each man; yea, all the host;
And each true soul shall learn the least and most
Of all his wrongs,—if wrongs indeed they be;
And he shall face the flag that guards the coast.
V.
He shall salute it! He shall find therein
Salve for his wounds and solace for his sin.
Brother and guide is he who loves his Land;
But he is kinless who denies his kin.
VI.
Has he a heart to feel, a knee to bend,
And will not trust his country to the end?
If this be so, God help him to a tear!
He shall be foiled, as foeman and as friend.
VII.
Bears he a sword? I care not. He is base;
Unfit to wield it, and of meaner place
Than tongue can tell of, in the Senate House;
And he shall find no balm for his disgrace.
VIII.
O men! I charge ye, in the name of Him
Who rules the world, and guards the cherubim,
I charge ye, pause, ere from the lighted track
Ye turn, distraught, to pathways that are dim.
IX.
Who gave your fathers, and your fathers' sons
The rights ye claim, amid the roar of guns,
And 'mid the flash thereof from sea to sea?
Your country! through her lov'd, her chosen ones.
X.
Oh, ye are dastards if ye lift a hand,
Dastards and fools, if, loveless in a band,
Ye touch in wrath the bulwark of the realm.
Ye shall be baulk'd, and Chivalry shall stand.
XI.
I have a sword, I also, and I swear
By my heart's faith, and by my Lady's hair,
That I will strike the first of ye that moves,
If by a sign ye wrong the flag ye bear.
XII.
In Freedom's name, in her's to whom we bow,
In her great name, I charge ye, palter now
With no traducer of your country's cause.
Accurst of God is he who breaks his vow!
ZULALIE.
I.
I am the sprite
That reigns at night,
My body is fair for man's delight.
I leap and laugh
As the wine I quaff,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.
II.
I curse and swear
In my demon-lair;
I shake wild sunbeams out of my hair.
I madden the old,
I gladden the bold,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.
III.
Of churchyard stone
I have made my throne;
My locks are looped with a dead man's bone.
Mine eyes are red
With the tears I shed,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.
IV.
In cities and camps
I have lighted my lamps,
My kisses are caught by kings and tramps.
With rant and revel
My hair I dishevel,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.
V.
My kisses are stains,
Mine arms are chains,
My forehead is fair and false like Cain's.
My gain is loss,
Mine honour is dross,—
And I am the queen of Astrofelle!
BEETHOVEN AT THE PIANO.
I.
See where Beethoven sits alone—a dream of days elysian,
A crownless king upon a throne, reflected in a vision—
The man who strikes the potent chords which make the world, in wonder,
Acknowledge him, though poor and dim, the mouthpiece of the thunder.
II.
He feels the music of the skies the while his heart is breaking;
He sings the songs of Paradise, where love has no forsaking.
And, though so deaf he cannot hear the tempest as a token,
He makes the music of his mind the grandest ever spoken.
III.
He doth not hear the whispered word of love in his seclusion,
Or voice of friend, or song of bird, in Nature's sad confusion;
But he hath made, for Love's sweet sake, so wild a declamation
That all true lovers of the earth have claim'd him of their nation.
IV.
He had a Juliet in his youth, as Romeo had before him,
And, Romeo-like, he sought to die that she might then adore him;
But she was weak, as women are whose faith has not been proven,
And would not change her name for his—Guiciardi for Beethoven.
V.
O minstrel, whom a maiden spurned, but whom a world has treasured!
O sovereign of a greater realm than man has ever measured!
Thou hast not lost the lips of love, but thou hast gain'd, in glory,
The love of all who know the thrall of thine immortal story.
VI.
Thou art the bard whom none discard, but whom all men discover
To be a god, as Orpheus was, albeit a lonely lover;
A king to call the stones to life beside the roaring ocean,
And bid the stars discourse to trees in words of man's emotion.
VII.
A king of joys, a prince of tears, an emperor of the seasons,
Whose songs are like the sway of years in Love's immortal reasons;
A bard who knows no life but this: to love and be rejected,
And reproduce in earthly strains the prayers of the elected.
VIII.
O poet heart! O seraph soul! by men and maids adorèd!
O Titan with the lion's mane, and with the splendid forehead!
We men who bow to thee in grief must tremble in our gladness,
To know what tears were turned to pearls to crown thee in thy sadness.
IX.
An Angel by direct descent, a German by alliance,
Thou didst intone the wonder-chords which made Despair a science.
Yea, thou didst strike so grand a note that, in its large vibration,
It seemed the roaring of the sea in nature's jubilation.
X.
O Sire of Song! Sonata-King! Sublime and loving master;
The sweetest soul that ever struck an octave in disaster;
In thee were found the fires of thought—the splendours of endeavour,—
And thou shalt sway the minds of men for ever and for ever!
A RHAPSODY OF DEATH.
I.
That phantoms fair, with radiant hair,
May seek at midnight hour
The sons of men, belov'd again,
And give them holy power;
That souls survive the mortal hive, and sinless come and go,
Is true as death, the prophet saith; and God will have it so.
II.
For who be ye who doubt and prate?
O sages! make it clear
If ye be more than men of fate,
Or less than men of cheer;
If ye be less than bird or beast? O brothers! make it plain
If ye be bankrupts at a feast, or sharers in a gain.
III.
You say there is no future state;
The clue ye fail to find.
The flesh is here, and bones appear
When graves are undermined.
But of the soul, in time of dole, what answer can ye frame—
Ye who have heard no spirit-word to guide ye to the same.
IV.
Ah! facts are good, and reason's good,
But fancy's stronger far;
In weal or woe we only know
We know not what we are.
The sunset seems a raging fire, the clouds roll back, afraid;
The rainbow seems a broken lyre on which the storm has play'd.
V.
But these, ye urge, are outward signs.
Such signs are not for you.
The sight's deceiv'd and truth bereav'd
By diamonds of the dew.
The sage's mind is more refined, his rapture more complete;
He almost knows the little rose that blossoms at his feet!
VI.
The sage can kill a thousand things,
And tell the names of all;
And wrench away the wearied wings
Of eagles when they fall;
And calmly trace the lily's grace, or fell the strongest tree,
And almost feel, if not reveal, the secrets of the sea.
VII.
But can he set, by day or night,
The clock-work of the skies?
Or bring the dead man back to sight
With soul-invested eyes?
Can he describe the ways of life, the wondrous ways of death,
And whence it came, and what the flame that feeds the vital breath?
VIII.
If he could do such deeds as these,
He might, though poor and low,
Explain the cause of Nature's laws,
Which none shall ever know;
He might recall the vanish'd years by lifting of his hand,
And bid the wind go north or south to prove what he has plann'd.
IX.
But God is just. He burdens not
The shoulders of the sage;
He pities him whose sight is dim;
He turns no second page.
There are two pages to the book. We men have read the one;
The other needs a spirit-look, in lands beyond the sun.
X.
The other needs a poet's eye,
Like that of Milton blind;
The light of Faith which cannot die,
Though doubts perplex the mind;
The eyesight of a little child; a martyr's eye in dole,
Which sees afar the golden star that shines upon the soul!