Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 'O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster'd the callow eaglet - from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, never more. Shall lone Oenone see the morning mist Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 'O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her, The Abominable, that uninvited came And tell her to her face how much I hate men. 'O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: I pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. 'O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass, I chose. The ranged ramparts bright From level meadow-bases of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light. Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf And while the world runs round and round,' I said, 'Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade Sleeps on his luminous ring.' To which my soul made answer readily: 'Trust me, in bliss I shall abide In this great mansion, that is built for me, So royal-rich and wide.' Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, In each a squared lawn, where from The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam. And round the cool green courts there ran a row Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods. And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands, Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky Dipt down to sea and sands. From those four jets four currents in one swell Across the mountain stream❜d below In misty folds, that floating as they fell. Lit up a torrent-bow. And high on every peak a statue seem'd A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd So that she thought, 'And who shall gaze upon My palace with unblinded eyes, While this great bow will waver in the sun, And that sweet incense rise?' For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, Burnt like a fringe of fire. Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced, Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, And tipt with frost-like spires. And some one pacing there alone, Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, Lit with a low large moon. One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. You seem'd to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, Beneath the windy wall. And one, a full-fed river winding slow The ragged rims of thunder brooding. low, With shadow-streaks of rain. And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. In front they bound the sheaves. Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, And hoary to the wind. And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, And highest, snow and fire. And one, an English home-grey twilight pour'd On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep-all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace. Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, As fit for every mood of mind, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, Not less than truth design'd. * Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son And watch'd by weeping queens. Or hollowing one hand against his ear, Of wisdom and of law. Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, The mild bull's golden horn. Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh Nor these alone: but every legend fair * * * * Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, Moved of themselves, with silver sound; And with choice paintings of wise men 1 hung The royal dais round. For there was Milton like a seraph strong, Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song, And somewhat grimly smiled. Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd Of this wide world, the times of every land So wrought, they will not fail. The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings; Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man declined, And trusted any cure. But over these she trod: and those great bells Began to chime. She took her throne: She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, To sing her songs alone. And thro' the topmost Oriels' colour'd flame And all those names, that in their motion were Full-welling fountain-heads of change, Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair In diverse raiment strange: Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew Rivers of melodies. No nightingale delighteth to prolong More than my soul to hear her echo'd song Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, Joying to feel herself alive, Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, Lord of the senses five; Communing with herself: 'All these are mine, And let the world have peace or wars, 'Tis one to me.' She - when young night divine Crown'd dying day with stars, Making sweet close of his delicious toils Lit light in wreaths and anadems, And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollow'd moons of gems, To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried, 'I marvel if my still delight In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, 'O all things fair to sate my various eyes! isolation 'O God-like isolation which art mine, I can but count thee perfect gain, What time I watch the darkening droves of swine That range on yonder plain. palan 'In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep.' Then of the moral instinct would she prate, And of the rising from the dead, As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate; And at the last she said: 'I take possession of man's mind and deed. I care not what the sects may brawl. I sit as God holding no form of creed, * * * Full oft the riddle of the painful earth Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell, Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, Struck thro' with pangs of hell. Lest she should fail and perish utterly, When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight, The airy hand confusion wrought, Wrote 'Mene, mene,' and divided quite The kingdom of her thought. Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self-scorn. 'What! is not this my place of strength,' she said, 'My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid Since my first memory?' But in dark corners of her palace stood Uncertain shapes; and unawares On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, And horrible nightmares, And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, That stood aginst the wall. A spot of dull stagnation, without light Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite Making for one sure goal. A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand; Left on the shore; that hears all night The plunging seas draw backward from the land Their moon-led waters white. A star that with the choral starry dance Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orb of moving Circum Roll'd round by one fix'd law. Back on herself her serpent pri curl'd. 'No voice,' she shriek'd in that lo 'No voice breaks thro' the stillness world: One deep, deep silence all!' She, mouldering with the dull mouldering sod, Inwrapt tenfold in slothful sham Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name; And death and life she hated_equal And nothing saw, for her despair, But dreadful time, dreadful eternit No comfort anywhere; Remaining utterly confused with fea And ever worse with growing time, And ever unrelieved by dismal tears And all alone in crime: Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seem'd to hear the dully Of human footsteps fall. As in strange lands a traveller wa slow, In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the lo Moan of an unknown sea; And knows not if it be thunder, or a s Of rocks thrown down, or one dee Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, 'I found A new land, but I die.' She howl'd aloud, 'I am on fire withi There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my si And save me lest I die?' So when four years were wholly fini She threw her royal robes away. Make me a cottage in the vale,' she 'Where I may mourn and pray. Yet pull not down my palace towers, are So lightly, beautifully built: Rerchance I may return with others When I have purged my guilt.' THE LOTOS-EATERS 'COURAGE!' he said, and pointed toward land, 'This mounting wave will roll us shore soon.' In the afternoon they came unto a lan In which it seemed always afternoon. And all at once they sang, 'Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.' CHORIC SONG I beautiful There is sweet music here that softer falls Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. II Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 'There is no joy but calm!' Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? III Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. |