THIS English Thames is holier far than Rome, | |
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea | |
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam | |
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone | |
To fleck their blue waves,God is likelier there, | 5 |
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear! | |
|
Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take | |
Yon creamy lily for their pavilion | |
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake | |
A lazy pike lies basking in the sun | 10 |
His eyes half-shut,He is some mitred old | |
Bishop in partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold. | |
|
The wind the restless prisoner of the trees | |
Does well for Palæstrina, one would say | |
The mighty masters hands were on the keys | 15 |
Of the Maria organ, which they play | |
When early on some sapphire Easter morn | |
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne | |
|
From his dark House out to the Balcony | |
Above the bronze gates and the crowded square, | 20 |
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy | |
To toss their silver lances in the air, | |
And stretching out weak hands to East and West | |
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest. | |
|
Is not yon lingering orange afterglow | 25 |
That stays to vex the moon more fair than all | |
Romes lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago | |
I knelt before some crimson Cardinal | |
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline, | |
And nowthose common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine. | 30 |
|
The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous | |
With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring | |
Through this cool evening than the odorous | |
Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing, | |
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine, | 35 |
And makes Gods body from the common fruit of corn and vine. | |
|
Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass | |
Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird | |
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass | |
I see that throbbing throat which once I heard | 40 |
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady, | |
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea. | |
|
Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves | |
At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe, | |
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves | 45 |
Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe | |
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait | |
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate. | |
|
And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas, | |
And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay, | 50 |
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees | |
That round and round the linden blossoms play; | |
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall, | |
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall. | |
|
And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring | 55 |
While the last violet loiters by the well, | |
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing | |
The song of Linus through a sunny dell | |
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold | |
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold. | 60 |
|
And sweet with young Lycoris to recline | |
In some Illyrian valley far away, | |
Where canopied on herbs amaracine | |
We too might waste the summer-trancèd day | |
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry, | 65 |
While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea. | |
|
But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot | |
Of some long-hidden God should ever tread | |
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute | |
Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head | 70 |
By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed | |
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed. | |
|
Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister, | |
Though what thou singst be thine own requiem! | |
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler | 75 |
Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn | |
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field, | |
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield, | |
|
Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose, | |
Which all day long in vales Æolian | 80 |
A lad might seek in vain for, overgrows | |
Our hedges like a wanton courtezan | |
Unthrifty of her beauty, lilies too | |
Ilissus never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue | |
|
Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs | 85 |
For swallows going south, would never spread | |
Their azure tents between the Attic vines; | |
Even that little weed of ragged red, | |
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady | |
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy | 90 |
|
Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames | |
Which to awake were sweeter ravishment | |
Than ever Syrinx wept for, diadems | |
Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant | |
For Cytheræas brows are hidden here | 95 |
Unknown to Cytheræa, and by yonder pasturing steer | |
|
There is a tiny yellow daffodil, | |
The butterfly can see it from afar, | |
Although one summer evenings dew could fill | |
Its little cup twice over ere the star | 100 |
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold | |
And be no prodigal, each leaf is flecked with spotted gold | |
|
As if Joves gorgeous leman Danaé | |
Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss | |
The trembling petals, or young Mercury | 105 |
Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis | |
Had with one feather of his pinions | |
Just brushed them!the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns | |
|
Is hardly thicker than the gossamer, | |
Or poor Arachnes silver tapestry, | 110 |
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre | |
Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me | |
It seems to bring diviner memories | |
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas, | |
|
Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where | 115 |
On the clear rivers marge Narcissus lies, | |
The tangle of the forest in his hair, | |
The silence of the woodland in his eyes, | |
Wooing that drifting imagery which is | |
No sooner kissed than broken, memories of Salmacis | 120 |
|
Who is not boy or girl and yet is both, | |
Fed by two fires and unsatisfied | |
Through their excess, each passion being loth | |
For loves own sake to leave the others side | |
Yet killing love by staying, memories | 125 |
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moon-lit trees, | |
|
Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf | |
At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew | |
Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf | |
And called false Theseus back again nor knew | 130 |
That Dionysos on an amber pard | |
Was close behind her, memories of what Maeonias bard | |
|
With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy, | |
Queen Helen lying in the carven room, | |
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy | 135 |
Trimming with dainty hand his helmets plume, | |
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan, | |
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone; | |
|
Of wingèd Perseus with his flawless sword | |
Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch, | 140 |
And all those tales imperishably stored | |
In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich | |
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain | |
Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again, | |
|
For well I know they are not dead at all, | 145 |
The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy, | |
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call | |
Will wake and think t is very Thessaly, | |
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade | |
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played. | 150 |
|
If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird | |
Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne | |
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard | |
The horn of Atalanta faintly blown | |
Across the Cumner hills, and wandering | 155 |
Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets spring, | |
|
Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate | |
That pleadest for the moon against the day! | |
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate | |
On that sweet questing, when Proserpina | 160 |
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant | |
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment, | |
|
Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood! | |
If ever thou didst soothe with melody | |
One of that little clan, that brotherhood | 165 |
Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany | |
More than the perfect sun of Raphael | |
And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well, | |
|
Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young, | |
Let elemental things take form again, | 170 |
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among | |
The simple garths and open crofts, as when | |
The son of Leto bare the willow rod, | |
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God. | |
|
Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here | 175 |
Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne, | |
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear | |
With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone, | |
While at his side the wanton Bassarid | |
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid! | 180 |
|
Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin, | |
And steal the moonéd wings of Ashtaroth, | |
Upon whose icy chariot we could win | |
Cithæron in an hour eer the froth | |
Has overbrimmed the wine-vat or the Faun | 185 |
Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn | |
|
Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest, | |
And warned the bat to close its filmy vans, | |
Some Mænad girl with vine-leaves on her breast | |
Will filch their beechnuts from the sleeping Pans | 190 |
So softly that the little nested thrush | |
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush | |
|
Down the green valley where the fallen dew | |
Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store, | |
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew | 195 |
Trample the loosestrife down along the shore, | |
And where their hornèd master sits in state | |
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate! | |
|
Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face | |
Through the cool leaves Apollos lad will come, | 200 |
The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase | |
Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom, | |
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride, | |
After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride. | |
|
Sing on! and I the dying boy will see | 205 |
Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell | |
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me | |
The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell, | |
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes, | |
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies! | 210 |
|
Cry out aloud on Itys! memory | |
That foster-brother of remorse and pain | |
Drops poison in mine ear,O to be free, | |
To burn ones old ships! and to launch again | |
Into the white-plumed battle of the waves | 215 |
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves! | |
|
O for Medea with her poppied spell! | |
O for the secret of the Colchian shrine! | |
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel | |
Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine, | 220 |
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she | |
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea, | |
|
Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased | |
From lily to lily on the level mead, | |
Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste | 225 |
The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed, | |
Ere the black steeds had harried her away | |
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day. | |
|
O for one midnight and as paramour | |
The Venus of the little Melian farm! | 230 |
O that some antique statue for one hour | |
Might wake to passion, and that I could charm | |
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair | |
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair! | |
|
Sing on! sing on! I would be drunk with life, | 235 |
Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth, | |
I would forget the wearying wasted strife, | |
The riven vale, the Gorgon eyes of Truth, | |
The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer, | |
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air! | 240 |
|
Sing on! sing on! O feathered Niobe, | |
Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal | |
From joy its sweetest music, not as we | |
Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal | |
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep | 245 |
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep. | |
|
Sing louder yet, why must I still behold | |
The wan white face of that deserted Christ, | |
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold, | |
Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed, | 250 |
And now in mute and marble misery | |
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me. | |
|
O memory cast down thy wreathèd shell! | |
Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene! | |
O sorrow sorrow keep thy cloistered cell | 255 |
Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly! | |
Cease, cease, sad bird, thou dost the forest wrong | |
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song! | |
|
Cease, cease, or if tis anguish to be dumb | |
Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air, | 260 |
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become | |
This English woodland than thy keen despair, | |
Ah! cease and let the northwind bear thy lay | |
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay. | |
|
A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred, | 265 |
Endymion would have passed across the mead | |
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard | |
Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed | |
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid | |
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid. | 270 |
|
A moment more, the waking dove had cooed, | |
The silver daughter of the silver sea | |
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed | |
Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope | |
Had thrust aside the branches of her oak | 275 |
To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke. | |
|
A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss | |
Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon | |
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis | |
Had bared his barren beauty to the moon, | 280 |
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile | |
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile | |
|
Down leaning from his black and clustering hair | |
To shade those slumberous eyelids caverned bliss, | |
Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare | 285 |
High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis | |
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer | |
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear. | |
|
Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still! | |
O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing! | 290 |
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill | |
Come not with such desponded answering! | |
No more thou wingèd Marsyas complain, | |
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain! | |
|
It was a dream, the glade is tenantless, | 295 |
No soft Ionian laughter moves the air, | |
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness, | |
And from the copse left desolate and bare | |
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry, | |
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody | 300 |
|
So sad, that one might think a human heart | |
Brake in each separate note, a quality | |
Which music sometimes has, being the Art | |
Which is most nigh to tears and memory, | |
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear? | 305 |
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here, | |
|
Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade, | |
No woven web of bloody heraldries, | |
But mossy dells for roving comrades made, | |
Warm valleys where the tired student lies | 310 |
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk | |
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk. | |
|
The harmless rabbit gambols with its young | |
Across the trampled towing-path, where late | |
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng | 315 |
Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight; | |
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads, | |
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds | |
|
Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out | |
Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock | 320 |
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout | |
Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock, | |
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill, | |
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill. | |
|
The heron passes homeward to the mere, | 325 |
The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees, | |
Gold world by world the silent stars appear, | |
And like a blossom blown before the breeze, | |
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky, | |
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody. | 330 |
|
She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed, | |
She knows Endymion is not far away, | |
Tis I, tis I, whose soul is as the reed | |
Which has no message of its own to play, | |
So pipes anothers bidding, it is I, | 335 |
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery. | |
|
Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill | |
About the sombre woodland seems to cling, | |
Dying in music, else the air is still, | |
So still that one might hear the bats small wing | 340 |
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell | |
Each tiny dewdrop dripping from the blue-bells brimming cell. | |
|
And far away across the lengthening wold, | |
Across the willowy flats and thickets brown, | |
Magdalens tall tower tipped with tremulous gold | 345 |
Marks the long High Street of the little town, | |
And warns me to return; I must not wait, | |
Hark! tis the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate. | |
|