Read Ebook: Grass of Parnassus by Lang Andrew

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Ebook has 379 lines and 15003 words, and 8 pages

There, 'midst thy music, doth thy spirit gaze As a girl pines for home, Looking along the way that she hath come, Sick to return, and counts the weary days! So wouldst thou flee Back to the multitude whose days are done, Wouldst taste the fruit that lured Persephone, The sacrament of death; and die, and be No more in the wind and sun!

Thou hast not dreamed it, but remembered I know thou hast been there, Hast seen the stately dwellings of the dead Rise in the twilight air, And crossed the shadowy bridge the spirits tread, And climbed the golden stair!

Nay, by thy cloudy hair And lips that were so fair, Sad lips now mindful of some ancient smart, And melancholy eyes, the haunt of Care, I know thee who thou art! That Rhodocleia, Glory of the Rose, Of Hellas, ere her close, That Rhodocleia who, when all was done The golden time of Greece, and fallen her sun, Swayed her last poet's heart.

With roses did he woo thee, and with song, With thine own rose, and with the lily sweet, The dark-eyed violet, Garlands of wind-flowers wet, And fragrant love-lamps that the whole night long Burned till the dawn was burning in the skies, Praising thy golden eyes, And feet more silvery than Thetis' feet!

But thou didst die and flit Among the tribes outworn, The unavailing myriads of the past: Oft he beheld thy face in dreams of morn, And, waking, wept for it, Till his own time came at last, And then he sought thee in the dusky land! Wide are the populous places of the dead Where souls on earth once wed May never meet, nor each take other's hand, Each far from the other fled!

So all in vain he sought for thee, but thou Didst never taste of the Lethaean stream, Nor that forgetful fruit, The mystic pom'granate; But from the Mighty Warden fledst; and now, The fugitive of Fate, Thou farest in our life as in a dream, Still wandering with thy lute, Like that sweet paynim lady of old song, Who sang and wandered long, For love of her Aucassin, seeking him! So with thy minstrelsy Thou roamest, dreaming of the country dim, Below the veiled sky!

There doth thy lover dwell, Singing, and seeking still to find thy face In that forgetful place: Thou shalt not meet him here, Not till thy singing clear Through all the murmur of the streams of hell Wins to the Maiden's ear! May she, perchance, have pity on thee and call Thine eager spirit to sit beside her feet, Passing throughout the long unechoing hall Up to the shadowy throne, Where the lost lovers of the ages meet; Till then thou art alone!

AVE.

'Our Faith and Troth All time and space controules Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknowne, and greet as Angels greet'

Col. Richard Lovelace. 1649

CLEVEDON CHURCH.

Westward I watch the low green hills of Wales, The low sky silver grey, The turbid Channel with the wandering sails Moans through the winter day. There is no colour but one ashen light On tower and lonely tree, The little church upon the windy height Is grey as sky or sea. But there hath he that woke the sleepless Love Slept through these fifty years, There is the grave that has been wept above With more than mortal tears. And far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain, As Hallam's dirge through all the years must keep Its monotone of pain.

Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies, My heart flits forth from these Back to the winter rose of northern skies, Back to the northern seas. And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat Below the minster grey, Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet, And knees of them that pray. And I remember me how twain were one Beside that ocean dim, I count the years passed over since the sun That lights me looked on him, And dreaming of the voice that, save in sleep, Shall greet me not again, Far, far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain.

TWILIGHT ON TWEED.

Three crests against the saffron sky, Beyond the purple plain, The kind remembered melody Of Tweed once more again.

Wan water from the border hills, Dear voice from the old years, Thy distant music lulls and stills, And moves to quiet tears.

Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood Fleets through the dusky land; Where Scott, come home to die, has stood, My feet returning stand.

A mist of memory broods and floats, The Border waters flow; The air is full of ballad notes, Borne out of long ago.

Old songs that sung themselves to me, Sweet through a boy's day dream, While trout below the blossom'd tree Plashed in the golden steam.

Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill, Fair and too fair you be; You tell me that the voice is still That should have welcomed me.

METEMPSYCHOSIS.

I shall not see thee, nay, but I shall know Perchance, the grey eyes in another's eyes, Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flow On purest brows, yea, and the swift surmise Shall follow and track, and find thee in disguise Of all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow, When through the scent of heather, faint and low, The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.

From all sweet art, and out of all old rhyme, Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me; The shadows of the beauty of all time, In song or story are but shapes of thee; Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet my dear, Shall life or death bring all thy being near?

LOST IN HADES.

I dreamed that somewhere in the shadowy place, Grief of farewell unspoken was forgot In welcome, and regret remembered not; And hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praise On lips that had been songless many days; Hope had no more to hope for, and desire And dread were overpast, in white attire New born we walked among the new world's ways.

Then from the press of shades a spirit threw Towards me such apples as these gardens bear; And turning, I was 'ware of her, and knew And followed her fleet voice and flying hair,-- Followed, and found her not, and seeking you I found you never, dearest, anywhere.

A STAR IN THE NIGHT.

The perfect piteous beauty of thy face Is like a star the dawning drives away; Mine eyes may never see in the bright day Thy pallid halo, thy supernal grace; But in the night from forth the silent place Thou comest, dim in dreams, as doth a stray Star of the starry flock that in the grey Is seen, and lost, and seen a moment's space.

And as the earth at night turns to a star, Loved long ago, and dearer than the sun, So in the spiritual place afar, At night our souls are mingled and made one, And wait till one night fall, and one dawn rise, That brings no noon too splendid for your eyes.

A SUNSET ON YARROW.

The wind and the day had lived together, They died together, and far away Spoke farewell in the sultry weather, Out of the sunset, over the heather, The dying wind and the dying day.

Far in the south, the summer levin Flushed, a flame in the grey soft air: We seemed to look on the hills of heaven; You saw within, but to me 'twas given To see your face, as an angel's, there.

Never again, ah surely never Shall we wait and watch, where of old we stood, The low good-night of the hill and the river, The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver, Twain grown one in the solitude.

ANOTHER WAY.

Come to me in my dreams, and then, One saith, I shall be well again, For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.

Nay, come not THOU in dreams, my sweet, With shadowy robes, and silent feet, And with the voice, and with the eyes That greet me in a soft surprise.

Last night, last night, in dreams we met, And how, to-day, shall I forget, Or how, remembering, restrain Mine incommunicable pain?

Nay, where thy land and people are, Dwell thou remote, apart, afar, Nor mingle with the shapes that sweep The melancholy ways of Sleep.

But if, perchance, the shadows break, If dreams depart, and men awake, If face to face at length we see, Be thine the voice to welcome me.

HESPEROTHEN

THE SEEKERS FOR PHAEACIA.

There is a land in the remotest day, Where the soft night is born, and sunset dies; The eastern shore sees faint tides fade away, That wash the lands where laughter, tears, and sighs Make life,--the lands below the blue of common skies.

But in the west is a mysterious sea, With coasts enchanted where the Sirens be, With islands where a Goddess walks alone, And in the cedar trees the magic winds make moan.

Eastward the human cares of house and home, Cities, and ships, and unknown gods, and loves; Westward, strange maidens fairer than the foam, And lawless lives of men, and haunted groves, Wherein a god may dwell, and where the Dryad roves.

The gods are careless of the days and death Of toilsome men, beyond the western seas; The gods are heedless of their painful breath, And love them not, for they are not as these; But in the golden west they live and lie at ease.

Yet the Phaeacians well they love, who live At the light's limit, passing careless hours, Most like the gods; and they have gifts to give, Even wine, and fountains musical, and flowers, And song, and if they will, swift ships, and magic powers.

It is a quiet midland; in the cool Of the twilight comes the god, though no man prayed, To watch the maids and young men beautiful Dance, and they see him, and are not afraid, For they are neat of kin to gods, and undismayed.

Ah, would the bright red prows might bring us nigh The dreamy isles that the Immortals keep! But with a mist they hide them wondrously, And far the path and dim to where they sleep,-- The loved, the shadowy lands, along the shadowy deep.

A SONG OF PHAEACIA.

The languid sunset, mother of roses, Lingers, a light on the magic seas, The wide fire flames, as a flower uncloses, Heavy with odour, and loose to the breeze.

The red rose clouds, without law or leader, Gather and float in the airy plain; The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar, The cedar scatters his scent to the main.

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