Bow down; and terror and fancy beget a god
A while evaded, and a while adored,
And afterward bemocked. As with a rod
Time smote the lords of Nineveh and Khem,
And raised the dreams which Hellas deemed divine;
As presently the grosser gods of Rome
Turned ghost, and Saturn’s pilfered diadem
Rolled at Christ’s bleeding feet.--What praise was thine
That art most feared of all? what gilded shrine,
Cajoling priest, and steaming hecatomb?
Scant need to wheedle Death! men said. Our life,
With all the pain and passion of the whole,
With all the toil, the sorrow and the strife,
Is but a passing onward to the goal
Where Death awaits us. Mid his votaries
Our birth-cry ranked us; nor may any art
Avail to save us, while the years consume
As ashes smoulder when their fervor dies
Insensibly; and he that lies apart
In darkness hears the pulsing of Death’s heart,
And knows that Death waits near him in the gloom.
_Yea, of all gods thou only lovest not gifts!_
Others we placate; or in smiting we
Evade them. When thou smitest with what shifts
May we evade thee? or how placate thee?
Thou wilt not hearken to any prayer of ours;
Thou biddest emperors and popes as well
As witless clowns, _Be still and bide thy fate!_--
Whose altar we have wreathed with fitting flowers--
With purple lupine, crumpled poppy-bell,
Ambiguous mandrake, and pale asphodel,--
Since praise thee or blame thee, thou art obdurate.
And nor to wheedle thee, nor to demand
Favor of thee or any pity of thee,
We come. Beneath a lifted sword we stand
And praise thee, knowing, whatever gods may be,
Thy altar is not shaken: though the creeds
And outworn faiths of dreaming seer and priest
Endure as sinister shadows, or endure
As marsh-fires glittering round a path that leads
Nowhither; and the night be, and the east
Sleep, and the sun not waken;--yet at least,
Though all things else be doubtful, death is sure.
We praise thee, knowing how vainly fancy spans
With timorous dreams the grave’s unplumbed abyss.
Vainly we famed the calm Olympians,
And vainly Ammon-Ra, and Artemis,
And Neith, and Krishna. Comfort we have had
Of kindlier lords whose fabled potency
With shadows decked the darkness lest the dread
Of darkness absolute should drive us mad,--
But Time discrowns them. Time endures. But he
Discrowns thee never, and endures by thee
Endured, against that time when Time be dead.
20
BALLAD OF THE DESTROYER
“_Ainsi nous applaudons la mort, la mort qui vient_”
--NICOLAS DE CAEN.
We laud him thus, that comes unto the king,
And lightly plucks him from the cushioned throne;
And drowns his glory and his warfaring
In unrecorded dim oblivion;
And girds another with the sword thereof;
And sets another in his stead to reign;
And ousts the remnant, nakedly to gain
Styx’ formless shore and nakedly complain
Midst twittering ghosts lamenting life and love.
For Death is merciless: a crack-brained king
He raises in the place of Prester John,
Smites Priam, and mid-course in conquering
Bids Cæsar pause; the wit of Solomon,
The wealth of Nero and the pride thereof,
And battle-prowess--or of Tamburlaine,
Darius, Jeshua, or Charlemaigne,--
Wheedle and bribe and surfeit Death in vain,
And get no grace of him nor any love.
Incuriously he smites the armored king
And tricks his counsellors;--as, later on,
Death will, half-idly, still our pleasuring,
And change for fevered laughter in the sun
Sleep such as Merlin’s,--and excess thereof,--
Whence we, divorceless Death our Viviaine
Implacable, may never more regain
The unforgotten rapture, and the pain
And grief and ecstasy of life and love.
For, presently, as quiet as the king
Sleeps now that planned the keeps of Ilion,
We, too, will sleep, whilst overhead the spring
Rules, and young lovers laugh--as we have done,--
And kiss--as we, that take no heed thereof,
But slumber very soundly, and disdain
The world-wide heralding of winter’s wane
And swift sweet ripple of the April rain
Running about the world to waken love.
We shall have done with love, and Death be king
And turn our nimble bodies carrion,
Our red lips dusty;--yet our live lips cling
Despite that age-long severance, and are one
Despite the grave and the vain grief thereof,--
Which we will baffle, if in Death’s domain
Fond memories may enter, and we twain
May dream a little, and rehearse again
In that unending sleep our present love.
Speed forth to her in halting unison,
My rhymes; and say no hindrance may restrain
Love from his aim when Love is bent thereon;
And that were love at my disposal lain--
All mine to take!--and Death had said, _Refrain,
Lest I, even I, exact the cost thereof_,
I know that even as the weather-vane
Follows the wind so would I follow Love.
21
EXHORTATION TOWARD ALMSGIVING
“_Faulse beaulté, qui tant me couste cher_”
--FRANÇOIS VILLON.
O Beauty of her, whereby I am undone!
O Grace of her, that hath no grace for me!
O Love of her, the bit that guides me on
To sorrow and to grievous misery!
O felon Charms, my poor heart’s enemy!
O furtive murderous Pride! O pitiless, great,
Cold Eyes of her! have done with cruelty!
Have pity upon me ere it be too late!
Happier for me if elsewhere I had gone
For pity,--ah, far happier for me,
Since never of her may any grace be won,
And lest dishonor slay me, I must flee.
_Haro!_ I cry, (and cry how uselessly!)
_Haro!_ I cry to folk of all estate,
For I must die unless it chance that she
Have pity upon me ere it be too late.
M’amye, that day in whose disastrous sun
Your beauty’s flower must fade and wane and be
No longer beautiful, draws near,--whereon
I will nor plead nor mock;--not I, for we
Shall both be old and vigorless! M’amye,
Drink deep of love, drink deep, nor hesitate
Until the spring run dry, but speedily
Have pity upon me--ere it be too late!
Lord Love, that all love’s lordship hast in fee,
Lighten, ah, lighten thy displeasure’s weight.
For all true hearts should, of Christ’s charity,
Have pity upon me ere it be too late.
22
COMFORT FOR CENTENARIANS
--After NICOLAS DE CAEN.
Marvel not if my words are bold;
Though the sound be rude, yet the sense is true:
Too long you have flouted a tale oft-told
By the stammering tongues of men that woo,
And woo you vainly. Your brain is askew
For pride in your body’s magnificence,
And its color and curving so fair to view;--
And what will it matter a hundred years hence?
My burden, I grant you, is blunt and old:
Yet time will sharpen its sting when you--
Even you yourself!--and the things you hold
At so dear a price are a bone or two;
And those wonderful eyes, whose heaven-like blue
Is the crown of your beauty’s excellence,
Are unsavory holes that a worm crawls through;--
And what will it matter a hundred years hence?
Encrusted and tainted with churchyard mould,
Your dear perfections must lie perdue;
Take on such favor as few behold
With liking, and certainly none pursue;
And your beauty be reft of all revenue,
And suffer the blind worm’s insolence,
Who recks not at all of height, hair and hue,--
And what will it matter a hundred years hence?
ETTARRE, I proffer my love anew,
And life with a jest at the world’s expense;
And if for your favor I vainly sue--
Why, what will it matter a hundred years hence?
23
THE CONQUEROR PASSES
“_Non dormatz plus! les messatges de douz pascor_”
--RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS.
Awaken! for the servitors of Spring
Proclaim his triumph! ah, make haste to see
With what tempestuous pageantry they bring
The victor homeward! haste, for this is he
That cast out Winter, and all woes that cling
To Winter’s garments, and bade April be!
And now that Spring is master, let us be
Content, and laugh as anciently in spring
The battle-wearied Tristran laughed, when he
Was come again Tintagel-ward, to bring
Glad news of Arthur’s victory--and see
Ysoude, with parted lips, that waver and cling.
Not yet in Brittany must Tristran cling
To this or that sad memory, and be
Alone, as she in Cornwall; for in spring
Love sows against far harvestings,--and he
Is blind, and scatters baleful seed that bring
Such fruitage as blind Love lacks eyes to see.
Love sows, but lovers reap: and ye will see
The loved eyes lighten, feel the loved lips cling,
Never again when in the grave ye be
Incurious of your happiness in spring,
And get no grace of Love there, whither he
That bartered life for love no love may bring.
No braggart Heracles avails to bring
Alcestis hence; nor here may Roland see
The eyes of Aude; nor here the wakening spring
Vex any man with memories: for there be
No memories that cling as cerements cling,
No force that baffles Death, more strong than he.
Us hath he noted, and for us hath he
An hour appointed; and that hour will bring
Oblivion.--Then laugh! Laugh, dear, and see
The tyrant mocked, while yet our bosoms cling,
While yet our lips obey us, and we be
Untrammeled in our little hour of spring!
Thus in the spring we jeer at Death, though he
Will see our children perish, and will bring
Asunder all that cling while love may be.
24
THE MENDICANTS
“_Domna, de totz bos aips complida_”
--RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS.
O Madam Destiny, omnipotent,
Be not too obdurate to us who pray
That this our transient grant of youth be spent
In laughter as befits a holiday,--
From which the evening summons us away,
From which to-morrow wakens us to strife
And toil and grief and wisdom,--and to-day
Grudge us not life!
O Madam Destiny, omnipotent,
Why need our elders trouble us at play?
We know that very soon we shall repent
The idle follies of our holiday.
And being old, shall be as wise as they:
But now we are not wise, and lute and fife
Plead sweetlier than axioms,--so to-day
Grudge us not life!
O Madam Destiny, omnipotent,
You have given us youth--and must we cast away
The cup undrained and our one coin unspent
Because our elders’ beards and hearts are gray?
They have forgotten that if we delay
Death claps us on the shoulder, and with knife
Or cord or fever, flouts the prayer we pray--
_Grudge us not life_!
Madam, recall that in the sun we play
But for an hour, then have the worm for wife,
The tomb for habitation,--and to-day
Grudge us not life!
IV
HORTENSIS
“_Dedans le boys je m’en allay_”
25
ALONE IN APRIL
“_In un boschetto trovai pastorella_”
--? GUERZO DI MONTECANTI.
Rustling leaves of the willow-tree
Peering downward at you and me,
And no man else in the world to see.
Only the birds, whose dusty coats
Show dark in the green--whose throbbing throats
Turn joy to music and love to notes.
Lean your body against the tree,
Lifting your red lips up to me,
Ettarre, and kiss, with no man to see!
And let us laugh for a little.--Yea,
Let love and laughter herald the day
When laughter and love will be put away.
Then you will remember the willow-tree
And this very hour, and remember me,
Ettarre,--whose face you will no more see!
So swift, so swift the glad time goes,
And Eld and Death with their countless woes
Draw near, and the end thereof no man knows.
Lean your body against the tree,
Lifting your red lips up to me,
Ettarre, and kiss, with no man to see!
26
“--BUT WISDOM IS JUSTIFIED OF HER CHILDREN”
“_Oramai quando flore_”
--ALESSANDRO DE MEDICI.
Phyllida, spring wakes about us--
Wakes to mock at us and flout us
That so coldly do delay:
When the very birds are mating,
Pray you, why should we be waiting--
We that might be wed to-day?
_Life is brief_, the wise men tell us;--
Even those dusty, musty fellows
That have done with life,--and pass
Where the wraith of Aristotle
Hankers, vainly, for a bottle,
Youth and some frank Grecian lass.
Ah, I warrant you;--and Zeno
Would not reason, now, could he know
One more chance to live and love:
For, at best, the merry May-time
Is a very fleeting playtime;--
Why, then, waste an hour thereof?
Plato, Solon, Periander,
Seneca, Anaximander,
Pyrrho, and Parmenides!
Were one hour alone remaining
Would ye spend it in attaining
Learning, or to lips like these?
Thus, I demonstrate by reason
Now is our predestined season
For the garnering of all bliss;
Prudence is but long-faced folly;
Cry a fig for melancholy!
Seal the bargain with a kiss.
27
THE LOVERS’ DOXOLOGY
“_O voi che per la via d’amor passate_”
--ALESSANDRO DE MEDICI.
Listen, all lovers! the spring is here,
And the world is not amiss;
As long as laughter is good to hear,
And lips are good to kiss,--
As long as Youth and Spring endure,--
There is never an evil past a cure,
And the world is never amiss.
O lovers all, I bid ye declare
The world is a pleasant place;--
Give thanks to God for the gift so fair,
Give thanks for His singular grace!
Give thanks for Youth and Love and Spring!
Give thanks, as gentlefolk should, and sing,
_The world is a pleasant place_!
28
OF ANNUAL MAGIC: AT TWENTY
“_Be m play lo dous temp de pascor_”
--RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS.
Now I loiter, and dream to the branches’ swaying
In furtive conference,--high overhead,--
A-tingle with rumors that Winter is sped
And over his ruins a world goes maying.
Somewhere--impressively,--people are saying
Intelligent things (which their grandmothers said),
While I loiter, and dream to the branches’ swaying
In furtive conference, high overhead.
Here the hand of April, unwashed from slaying
Earth’s fallen tyrant--for Winter is dead,--
Uncloses anemones, staining them red;
And her daffodils guard me, in squads,--displaying
Intrepid lances lest wisdom tread
Where I loiter and dream to the branches’ swaying.
29
OF ANNUAL MAGIC: AT TWENTY-FIVE
“_Quant erba vertz e fuelha par_”
--RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS.
April wakes, and the gifts are good
Which April grants in this lonely wood,
Mid the wistful sounds of a solitude
Whose immemorial murmuring
Is the voice of Spring
And murmurs the burden of burgeoning.
April wakes, and her heart is high,
For the Bassarids and the Fauns are nigh,
And prosperous leaves lisp busily
Over fluttered brakes, whence the breezes bring
Vext twittering
To swell the burden of burgeoning.
April wakes, and afield, astray,
She calls to whom at the end I say,
_Heart o’ My Heart, I am thine alway_,--
And I follow, follow her carolling,
For I hear her sing
Above the burden of burgeoning.
April wakes;--it were good to live
(_Yet April passes_), though April give
No other gift for our pleasuring
Than the old, old burden of burgeoning.
30
OF ANNUAL MAGIC: AT TWENTY-EIGHT
“_Era m requier sa custum’e son us pascor_”
--RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS.
May shows with godlike showing
To-day for each that sees
May’s magic overthrowing
All musty memories
In him whom May decrees
To be love’s own. He saith,
_I wear love’s liveries
Until released by death_.
Thus all we laud May’s sowing,
Nor heed how harvests please
When nowhere grain worth growing
Greets autumn’s questing breeze,
And garnerers garner these--
Vain words and wasted breath
And spilth and tasteless lees,--
Until released by death.
Unwillingly foreknowing
That love with May-time flees,
We take this day’s bestowing,
And feed on fantasies
Such as love lends for ease
Where none but travaileth,
With lean infrequent fees,
Until released by death.
31
OF ANNUAL MAGIC: AT THIRTY
“_Ai! chant d’ouzel comensa sa sazos_”
--RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS.
Now May awakes, and spring comes back;
Now green fire creeps from tree to tree,
And he that travels need not lack
The sight of an anemone
’Twixt one sea and another sea;
Now blithe birds build, and wan hearts quicken,
Oblivious of dreams that sicken
Drear ice-engirdled reverie.
Now I in part forget ... recall
In part ... how yonder throstle’s call
Inveigles whither mirth is,--
Because so many lips have told
The tale I told, once, who am old,
However young the earth is.
32
THE DOTARD CONJURER
“_Le Printemps est devenu comme un sorcier faible_”
--PAUL VERVILLE.
Spring is become a dotard conjurer,
And his old magic works not any more!
No more avails the whisper of friendly leaves;
And now the forest is undenizened
Of daydreams, which, like elfin outlaws, once
Lay hid in wait for every passer-by
And pilfered all his sorrows; dawn abates
In wonder and tells flatly, _It is day_,
And tells no more than that now; and the night
Brews no more philtres; and the moon forgets
That ancient wizardry which once was hers.
Ah, the old magic works not any more,
Though I have known its potency. Perchance,
Somewhere a great way off, in Avalon,
Atlantis, or the hushed Hesperides,
Hearts lighten with the coming in of spring,
Even as once. Yes, for this thing has been,
And may be yet in far-off Avalon.
For it may be in far-off Avalon,
Even as once--was it not yesterday?--
All forests are akin to Brocelaunde,
And fear and beauty keep their heritage
And breathe of something hidden in the woods
Save birds, and trees, and flowers, and ravenous gnats,--
For they are haunted by those messengers
That April sends about our woods no more
On primal errands. But in Avalon,
Fern-carpeted untroubled Avalon,
When April wakes and rises, with wind-blown hair
And steadfast eyes--when at the tip of the world
The sun takes heart a little,--then sturdy April
Exults, and summons tricksy ministers
To color and flaunt in low, yet-dreaming fields
The first flush of the apple-blossoms; and marshal
The stout spears of the daffodils; and guide
Frail baby clouds about the lonely heavens;
And polish frost-nipped stars; and re-awaken
Warm gracious land-winds where the restive waters
Shout to the glistening sands and hunger all night
With impotent desire of the naked moon.
Yes; this may be, in far-off Avalon.
Here the old magic works not any more:
And Spring, a dotard conjurer, forgets
The runes and sorceries of yesterday,
And may at best evoke but tenuous visions,--
Faint-hearted dreams that people the turbid past
With half-seen faces and derisive laughter;--
And there is nothing hidden in the woods
Save birds, and trees, and flowers, and ravenous gnats,
And, under all, dead and decaying leaves.
_Nay, under all, dead and decaying leaves
Enrich that mould which bred them, and whereby
The tree is nourished and new leaves put forth._
V
MELÆNIS
“_De moy, pauvre, je veuil parler_”
33
UNCHARTED
“_Un beau royaume nous cherchons_”
--ANTOINE RICZI.
There is a land those hereabout
Ignore.... Its gates are barred
By Titan twins, named Fear and Doubt.
These mercifully guard
That land we seek--the land so fair!--
And all the fields thereof,
Where daffodils flaunt everywhere
And ouzels chant of love,--
Lest we attain the Middle-Land,
Whence clouded well-springs rise,
And vipers from a slimy strand
Lift glittering cold eyes.
NOW, THE PARABLE ALL MAY UNDERSTAND,
AND SURELY YOU KNOW THE NAME OF THE LAND!
AH, NEVER A GUIDE OR EVER A CHART
MAY SAFELY LEAD YOU ABOUT THIS LAND,--
THE LAND OF THE HUMAN HEART!
34
SCHOOL-SONG
“_Je fais attention aux maîtres_”
--ALPHONSE MOREAU.
_I have to heed my teachers,
And try to trust my school,
And yet no less, through awkwardness,
Infringe on every rule._
Dim laws I may not understand
I strive to keep--and break,
Somehow. I see forbidden me
Much that I want--and take
Sometimes,--not meaning to do wrong,
Nor meaning to deny
Due weight to rules one ridicules
Somewhat, yet lives thereby.
If teachers could but recollect
The lads they used to be,
I think that all could half-recall,
Somewhere, someone like me.
(_The lads they were!_ What looking-glass
Shows me a lad to-day?
With little learned, much half-discerned,
I toil already gray).
Yet honor, ruefully, the rule--
All teachers must be sure
That each mistake their pupils make
Was never made before:
And honor, tacitly, the rule--
No pupil ever thrives
Who questions _Why?_ of laws whereby
We lead our ordered lives.
_For we must heed our teachers,
And try to trust our school,
Until they teach the reason each
Infringes every rule._
35
“AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING--”
--After NICOLAS DE CAEN.
Man’s love hath many prompters,
But a woman’s love hath none;
And he may woo a nimble wit
Or hair that shames the sun,
Whilst she must pick of all one man
And ever brood thereon,--
And for no reason,
And not rightly,--
Save that the plan was foreordained
(More old than Chalcedon,
Or any tower of Tarshish
Or of gleaming Babylon),
That she must love unwillingly
And love till life be done,--
He for a season,
And more lightly.
36
BALLAD OF THE DOUBLE-SOUL
“_Les Dieux, qui trop aiment ses facéties cruelles_”
--PAUL VERVILLE.
In the beginning the Gods made man, and fashioned the sky and the sea,
And the earth’s fair face for man’s dwelling-place; and this was the
Gods’ decree:--
_Lo, We have given to man five wits: he discerneth folly and sin;
He is swift to deride all the world outside, and blind to the world
within:
So that man may make sport and amuse Us, in battling for phrases or
pelf,
Now that each may know what forebodeth woe to his neighbor, and not to
himself._
Yet some have the Gods forgotten,--or is it that subtler mirth
The Gods extort of a certain sort of folk that cumber the earth?
FOR THIS IS THE SONG OF THE DOUBLE-SOUL, DISTORTEDLY TWO IN ONE,----
OF THE WEARIED EYES THAT STILL BEHOLD THE FRUIT ERE THE SEED BE SOWN,
AND DERIVE AFFRIGHT FOR THE NEARING NIGHT FROM THE LIGHT OF THE
NOONTIDE SUN.
For, one that with hope in the morning set forth, and knew never a
fear,
They have linked with another whom omens bother; and he whispers in
one’s ear.
And one is fain to be climbing where only angels have trod,
But is fettered and tied to another’s side who fears that it might
look odd.
And one would worship a woman whom all perfections dower,
But the other smiles at transparent wiles; and he quotes from
Schopenhauer.
Thus two by two we wrangle and blunder about the earth,
And that body we share we may not spare; but the Gods have need of
mirth.
SO THIS IS THE SONG OF THE DOUBLE-SOUL, DISTORTEDLY TWO IN ONE,--
OF THE WEARIED EYES THAT STILL BEHOLD THE FRUIT ERE THE SEED BE SOWN,
AND DERIVE AFFRIGHT FOR THE NEARING NIGHT FROM THE LIGHT OF THE
NOONTIDE SUN.
37
WHEN TRAVELLERS RETURN
--A fancy from ALPHONSE MOREAU.
There is more in this room than is corporal,--
Grieved, silent, and striving in nameless ways,
While I read, with my back against the wall,
And nothing happens, and naught betrays
Unseen sad eyes that are weighing me
Somehow.
They trouble me, too, although
By rule and reason this should not be....
But a woman died here, years ago,
Who loved me much:--and what if the dead
Were doomed to this as their punishment--
That with those whom, living, they loved they tread
Forever, and are omniscient?
38
ANNALS
I--“QUIS DESIDERIO?”
(May 15th, 1913)
There is no room for grief when harvest nears
And, labor done, fit wages are received,--
No room for grief now that she wins full-sheaved
Her harvest, and no need of any tears.
She goes to garner honorable years;
She was a little wearied by long strife,
And still alert, and still in love with life--
As ever--would ascend to her compeers.
There is no room for grief; as to its nest
A seabird moves on pinions sure and strong,
Her sturdy spirit mounts when sturdiest,
And life ends nobly like a rounded song.
There is no room for grief; she is at rest
To whom rest was a stranger overlong.
II--“SED RISIT MIDAS”
(1915: Somewhere in the United States)
_Let all I touch be gold!_ King Midas cried
Of old in Phrygia. Jove heard the prayer,
And Midas laughed; for gold gleamed everywhere
His fingers reached; and iron gleamed outside.
Within, no friendly handclasp might abide
That touch which turned all gold, and made his food
Chill metal on his lips; chill amplitude
Derided him. So Midas laughed, and died.
To-day who follows Midas?--_Nay, let be
To whisper of lost friends I knew of old
When England gave me life which France made free!
I trade unbiased; and my guns are sold--
Whoever buys--now all need buy of me,
And all I touch or handle turns to gold!_
III--“APRILIS GESTA”
(Easter, 1865--Easter, 1915: Richmond, Virginia)
_A long half-century since when April reigned,
As now, our cause was lost because unjust--
Else wherefore lost?--when level with the dust
Fell citadels our fathers’ faith maintained
Till that old April_,--hath the fool ordained.
Imprisoned by his bookshelves; and forgets
Truth is not lightly slain with bayonets,
Or warfare lost whence honor comes unstained.
And April craved her jest ere time began,--
So time anew brings April, to deride
More changeful, strife-drowned Earth, wherein to span
The surge of war’s inexorable tide
Attends the wit of a Virginian,
And men acclaim the Christ men crucified.
IV--“LEX SCRIPTA EST”
(February 14th, 1916)