THE DEPARTURE. I. AND on her lover's arm she leant, In that new world which is the old : Across the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, II. 'I'd sleep another hundred years, O love, for such another kiss ;' 'O wake for ever, love,' she hears, 'O love, 'twas such as this and this.' And o'er them many a sliding star, And many a merry wind was borne, And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, The twilight melted into morn. III. 'O eyes long laid in happy sleep!' "O happy sleep, that lightly fled !' 'O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!' 'O love, thy kiss would wake the dead! And o'er them many a flowing range Of vapour buoy'd the crescent-bark, And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark. IV. 'A hundred summers! can it be? And whither goest thou, tell me where?' 'O seek my father's court with me, For there are greater wonders there.' And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him. MORAL. I. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, What moral is in being fair. Oh, to what uses shall we put The wildweed-flower that simply blows? And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose? II. But any man that walks the mead, A meaning suited to his mind. In Art like Nature, dearest friend; So 'twere to cramp its use, if I Should hook it to some useful end. L'ENVOI. I. You shake your head. A random string To fall asleep with all one's friends; To pass with all our social ties To silence from the paths of men ; And every hundred years to rise And learn the world, and sleep again; To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, And wake on science grown to more, On secrets of the brain, the stars, As wild as aught of fairy lore; And all that else the years will show, The Poet-forms of stronger hours, The vast Republics that may grow, The Federations and the Powers; Titanic forces taking birth In divers seasons, divers climes; For we are Ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times. II. So sleeping, so aroused from sleep Thro' sunny decads new and strange, Or gay quinquenniads would we reap The flower and quintessence of change. III. Ah, yet would I-and would I might! So much your eyes my fancy takeBe still the first to leap to light That I might kiss those eyes awake! For since the time when Adam first In carol, every bud to flower, What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes, What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd? Where on the double rosebud droops The fulness of the pensive mind; Which all too dearly self-involved, Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me; A sleep by kisses undissolved, That lets thee neither hear nor see: But break it. In the name of wife, And in the rights that name may give, Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, EPILOGUE. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And, if you find a meaning there, O whisper to your glass, and say, 'What wonder, if he thinks me fair?' What wonder I was all unwise, To shape the song for your delight Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light? Or old-world trains, upheld at court By Cupid-boys of blooming hueBut take it-earnest wed with sport, And either sacred unto you. AMPHION. My father left a park to me, But it is wild and barren, A garden too with scarce a tree, And waster than a warren : Yet say the neighbours when they call, It is not bad but good land, And in it is the germ of all That grows within the woodland. O had I lived when song was great Nor cared for seed or scion ! 'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, He set up his forlorn pipes, The linden broke her ranks and rent The woodbine wreaths that bind her, Came wet-shod alder from the wave, Old elms came breaking from the vine, And wasn't it a sight to see, When, ere his song was ended, As dash'd about the drunken leaves Oh, nature first was fresh to men, You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs! And make her dance attendance; Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, And scirrhous roots and tendons. 'Tis vain! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle; Scarce answer to my whistle; But what is that hear? a sound Like sleepy counsel pleading; O Lord!-'tis in my neighbour's ground, And Works on Gardening thro' there, And Methods of transplanting trees To look as if they grew there. The wither'd Misses! how they prose But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, Are neither green nor sappy; Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, The spindlings look unhappy. Better to me the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain. And I must work thro' months of toil, To grow my own plantation. ST. AGNES' EVE. DEEP on the convent-roof the snows The shadows of the convent-towers Still creeping with the creeping hours Make Thou my spirit pure and clear Or this first snowdrop of the year As these white robes are soil'd and dark, As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, One sabbath deep and wide- SIR GALAHAD. My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel : They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. When down the stormy crescent goes, I hear a voice but none are there; The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail : On sleeping wings they sail. My spirit beats her mortal bars, And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight-to me is given I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, Swells up, and shakes and falls. |