A Library of Poetry and Song

The night seemed long, and long the twilight With something like to hope, and all that day seemed,

A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair; Though through the night still of his work he dreamed,

And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it

were,

That thence he could behold the marble hair;
Naught was enough, until with steel in hand
He came before the wondrous stone to stand.

Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught,
And, drawing near, and sighing, tenderly
Upon the marvel of the face he wrought,
E'en as he used to pass the long days by;
But his sighs changed to sobbing presently,
And on the floor the useless steel he flung,
And, weeping loud, about the image clung.

"Alas!" he cried, "why have I made thee then,
That thus thou mockest me? I know indeed
That many such as thou are loved of men,
Whose passionate eyes poor wretches still will lead
Into their net, and smile to see them bleed;
But these the Gods made, and this hand made thee
Who wilt not speak one little word to me."

Then from the image did he draw aback
To gaze on it through tears: and you had said,
Regarding it, that little did it lack

To be a living and most lovely maid;
Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid
Over the lovely shoulders; with one hand
Reached out, as to a lover, did it stand,

The other held a fair rose over-blown ;
No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes
Seemed as if even now great love had shown
Unto them something of its sweet surprise,
Yet saddened them with half-seen mysteries,
And still midst passion maiden-like she seemed,
As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed.

Reproachfully beholding all her grace, Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed, And then at last he turned away his face As if from her cold eyes his grief to hide; And thus a weary while did he abide, With nothing in his heart but vain desire, The ever-burning, unconsuming fire.

No word indeed the moveless image said,
But with the sweet grave eyes his hands had
wrought

Still gazed down on his bowed imploring head,
Yet his own words some solace to him brought,
Gilding the net wherein his soul was caught

Some tender words he ever found to say;

And still he felt as something heard him speak;
Sometimes he praised her beauty, and sometimes
Reproached her in a feeble voice and weak,
And at the last drew forth a book of rhymes,
Wherein were writ the tales of many climes,
And read aloud the sweetness hid therein
Of lovers' sorrows and their tangled sin.

And when the sun went down, the frankincense
Again upon the altar-flame he cast
That through the open window floating thence
O'er the fresh odors of the garden passed;
And so another day was gone at last,
And he no more his lovelorn watch could keep,
But now for utter weariness must sleep.

But the next morn, e'en while the incense-smoke
At sunrising curled round about her head,
Sweet sound of songs the wonted quiet broke
Down in the street, and he by something led,
He knew not what, must leave his prayer unsaid,
And through the freshness of the morn must see
The folk who went with that sweet minstrelsy;

Damsels and youths in wonderful attire,
And in their midst upon a car of gold
An image of the Mother of Desire,
Wrought by his hands in days that seemed grown

old,

Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold. Colored like flame, enwrought with precious things,

Most fit to be the prize of striving kings.

Then he remembered that the manner was
That fair-clad priests the lovely Queen should take
Thrice in the year, and through the city pass,
And with sweet songs the dreaming folk awake;
And through the clouds a light there seemed to
break

When he remembered all the tales well told
About her glorious kindly deeds of old.

So his unfinished prayer he finished not,
But, kneeling, once more kissed the marble feet,
And, while his heart with many thoughts waxed
hot,

He clad himself with fresh attire and meet
For that bright service, and with blossoms sweet
Entwined with tender leaves he crowned his head,
And followed after as the goddess led.

So there he stood, that help from her to gain,
Bewildered by that twilight midst of day;
Downcast with listening to the joyous strain
He had no part in, hopeless with delay

Of all the fair things he had meant to say:
Yet, as the incense on the flame he cast,
From stammering lips and pale these words there
passed, -

"O thou forgotten help, dost thou yet know
What thing it is I need, when even I,
Bent down before thee in this shame and woe,
Can frame no set of words to tell thee why
I needs must pray, O help me or I die!
Or slay me, and in slaying take from me
Even a dead man's feeble memory.

Yet soon, indeed, before his door he stood, And, as a man awaking from a dream,

O dear companion of my new-found life,
For I am called thy lover and thy wife?

She reached her hand to him, and with kind eyes
Gazed into his; but he the fingers caught
And drew her to him, and midst ecstasies
Passing all words, yea, wellnigh passing thought,
Felt that sweet breath that he so long had sought,
Felt the warm life within her heaving breast
As in his arms his living love he pressed.

But as his cheek touched hers he heard her say,
"Wilt thou not speak, Olove? why dost thou weep
Art thou then sorry for this long-wished day,
Or dost thou think perchance thou wilt not keep

Seemed waked from his old folly; naught seemed This that thou holdest, but in dreamy sleep?

good

Thus to his chamber at the last he came,

And, pushing through the sti' half-opened door,
He stood within; but there, for very shame
Of all the things that he had done before,
Still kept his eyes bent down upon the floor,
Thinking of all that he had done and said
Since he had wrought that luckless marble maid.

Yet soft his thoughts were, and the very place
Seemed perfumed with some nameless heavenly air.
So gaining courage, did he raise his face
Unto the work his hands had made so fair,
And cried aloud to see the niche all bare
Of that sweet form, while through his heart again
There shot a pang of his old yearning pain.

Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do
With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came,
A shaft of new desire now pierced him through,
And therewithal a soft voice called his name,
And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame,
He saw betwixt him and the setting sun
The lively image of his loved one.

He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes,
Her very lips, were such as he had made,
And though her tresses fell but in such guise
As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed
In that fair garment that the priests had laid
Upon the goddess on that very morn,
Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn.

Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear,
Simple and sweet as she was wont to be,
And once again her silver voice rang clear,
Filling his soul with great felicity,

Nay, let us do the bidding of the Queen,
And hand in hand walk through thy garden green;

"Then shalt thou tell me, still beholding me,
Full many things whereof I wish to know,
And as we walk from whispering tree to tree
Still more familiar to thee shall I grow,
And such things shalt thou say unto me now
As when thou deemedst thou wast quite alone,
A madman kneeling to a thing of stone."

But at that word a smile lit up his eyes
And therewithal he spake some loving word,
And she at first looked up in grave surprise
And clung to him as somewhat grown afeard ;
When his deep voice and musical she heard,
Then cried aloud and said, "O mighty one!
What joy with thee to look upon the sun!"

Then into that fair garden did they pass,

| And all the story of his love he told,
And as the twain went o'er the dewy grass,
Beneath the risen moon could he behold
The bright tears trickling down, then, waxen bold,
He stopped and said, "Ah, love, what meaneth

this?

Seest thou how tears still follow earthly bliss?"

Then both her white arms round his neck she

threw,

And sobbing said, "O love, what hurteth me?
When first the sweetness of my life I knew,
Not this I felt, but when I first saw thee
A little pain and great felicity
Rose up within me, and thy talk e'en now
Made pain and pleasure ever greater grow."

"O sweet," he said, "this thing is even love,
Whereof I told thee; that all wise men fear,
But yet escape not; nay, to gods above,
Unless the old tales lie, it draweth near.
But let my happy ears, I pray thee, hear
Thy story too, and how thy blessed birth.

And thus she spoke, "Wilt thou not come to me, | Has made a heaven of this once lonely earth."

And but a strange confused noise could hear.

"At last mine eyes could see a woman fair, But awful as this round white moon o'erhead, So that I trembled when I saw her there, For with my life was born some touch of dread, And therewithal I heard her voice that said, 'Come down, and learn to love and be alive, For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.'

"Then on the floor I stepped, rejoicing much, Not knowing why, not knowing aught at all, Till she reached out her hand my breast to touch, And when her fingers thereupon did fall, Thought came unto my life, and therewithal I knew her for a goddess, and began To murmur in some tongue unknown to man.

"And then indeed not in this guise was I, No sandals had I, and no saffron gown, But naked as thou knowest utterly, E'en as my limbs beneath thine hand had grown, And this fair perfumed robe then fell adown Over the goddess' feet and swept the ground, And round her loins a glittering belt was bound.

"But when the stammering of my tongue she heard

Upon my trembling lips her hand she laid,
And spoke again, Nay, say not any word,
All that thine heart would say I know unsaid,
Who even now thine heart and voice have made;
But listen rather, for thou knowest now
What these words mean, and still wilt wiser grow.

"Thy body, lifeless till I gave it life,

A certain man, my servant, well hath wrought,
I give thee to him as his love and wife,
With all thy dowry of desire and thought,
Since this his yearning heart hath ever sought;
Now from my temple is he on the way,
Deeming to find thee e'en as yesterday;

"Bide thou his coming by the bed-head there,
And when thou seest him set his eyes upon
Thine empty niche, and hear'st him cry for care,
Then call him by his name, Pygmalion,
And certainly thy lover hast thou won;
But when he stands before thee silently,
Say all these words that I shall teach to thee.'

| Have wrought for him this long-desired day; In sign whereof, these things that pass away, Wherein mine image men have well arrayed, I give thee for thy wedding gear, O maid.'

And laid bare all her perfect loveliness,
"Therewith her raiment she put off from her,
And, smiling on me, came yet more anear,
And on my mortal lips her lips did press,
And said, Now herewith shalt thou love no less
Than Psyche loved my son in days of old;
Farewell, of thee shall many a tale be told.'

"And even with that last word was she gone,
How, I know not, and I my limbs arrayed
In her fair gifts, and waited thee alone -
Ah, love, indeed the word is true she said,
For now I love thee so, I grow afraid
Of what the gods upon our heads may send-
I love thee so, I think upon the end."

What words he said? How can I tell again What words they said beneath the glimmering light,

Some tongue they used unknown to loveless men
As each to each they told their great delight,
Until for stillness of the growing night
Their soft sweet murmuring words seemed grow.
ing loud,

And dim the moon grew, hid by fleecy cloud.

WILLIAM MORRIS.

JAMES FITZ-JAMES AND ELLEN.
FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE.”
A FOOTSTEP Struck her ear,
And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near.
She turned the hastier, lest again
The prisoner should renew his strain.
"O welcome, brave Fitz-James !" she said;
"How may an almost orphan maid
Pay the deep debt"-"O, say not so!
To me no gratitude you owe.

Not mine, alas! the boon to give,
And bid thy noble father live;

I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,
With Scotland's King thy suit to aid.
No tyrant he, though ire and pride
May lead his better mood aside.
Come, Ellen, come; 't is more than time,
He holds his court at morning prime."
With beating heart and bosom wrung,
As to a brother's arm she clung.
Gently he dried the falling tear,
And gently whispered hope and cheer;
Her faltering steps half led, half stayed,
Through gallery fair and high arcade,
Till, at his touch, its wings of pride
A portal arch unfolded wide.

Within 't was brilliant all and light,
A thronging scene of figures bright;
It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight,
As when the setting sun has given
Ten thousand hues to summer even,
And from their tissue fancy frames
Aerial knights and fairy dames.
Still by Fitz-James her footing stayed;
A few faint steps she forward made,
Then slow her drooping head she raised,
And fearful round the presence gazed :
For him she sought who owned this state,
The dreaded prince whose will was fate!
She gazed on many a princely port
Might well have ruled a royal court;
On many a splendid garb she gazed, -
Then turned bewildered and amazed,
For all stood bare; and in the room
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.
To him each lady's look was lent,
On him each courtier's eye was bent,
Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen
He stood, in simple Lincoln green,
The centre of the glittering ring, —
And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King!

As wreath of snow, on mountain breast,
Slides from the rock that gave it rest,
Poor Ellen glided from her stay,
And at the Monarch's feet she lay ;
No word her choking voice commands:
She showed the ring, she clasped her hands.
O, not a moment could he brook,
The generous prince, that suppliant look!
Gently he raised her, and the while
Checked with a glance the circle's smile;
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed,
And bade her terrors be dismissed :-
"Yes, fair; the wandering poor Fitz-James
The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes bring;
He will redeem his signet-ring.
Ask naught for Douglas; yester even
His prince and, he have much forgiven :
Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue,
I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.
We would not to the vulgar crowd
Yield what they craved with clamor loud;
Calmly we heard and judged his cause,
Our council aided and our laws.

I stanched thy father's death-feud stern,
With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;
And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own
The friend and bulwark of our Throne.
But, lovely infidel, how now?
What clouds thy misbelieving brow?
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;
Thou must confirm this doubting maid.”

Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,
And on his neck his daughter hung.
The Monarch drank, that happy hour,
The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,
When it can say, with godlike voice,
Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!
Yet would not James the general eye
On nature's raptures long should pry:
He stepped between- "Nay, Douglas, nay,
Steal not my proselyte away!

The riddle 't is my right to read,
That brought this happy chance to speed.
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray
In life's more low but happier way.

"T is under name which veils my power,
Nor falsely veils, - for Stirling's tower
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,
And Normans call me James Fitz-James,
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws,
Thus learn to right the injured cause."
Then, in a tone apart and low,
"Ah, little trait'ress! none must know
What idle dream, what lighter thought,
What vanity full dearly bought,
Joined to thine eye's dark witcheraft, drew
My spell-bound steps to Benvenue,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive!"
Aloud he spoke, - "Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold,

Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring;
What seeks fair Ellen of the King?"
Full well the conscious maiden guessed,
He probed the weakness of her breast;
But with that consciousness there came
A lightening of her fears for Græme,
And more she deemed the monarch's ire
Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire,
Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;
And, to her generous feeling true,
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.
"Forbear thy suit; the King of kings
Alone can stay life's parting wings.

I know his heart, I know his hand,
Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand:
My fairest earldom would I give
To bid Clan-Alpine's Chieftain live!-
Hast thou no other boon to crave?
No other captive friend to save ?"
Blushing, she turned her from the King,
And to the Douglas gave the ring,
As if she wished her sire to speak
The suit that stained her glowing cheek.
"Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,
And stubborn justice holds her course.

"Malcolm, come forth!". And, at the word Down knelt the Græme to Sootland's Lord.

Tones of tremulous emotion trailed upon the morning breeze,

Gentle words of heart-devotion whispered 'neath the ancient trees.

But the holy, blessed secrets it becomes me not to tell :

Life had met another meaning, fetching water from the well!

Down the rural lane they sauntered. He the burden-pitcher bore ;

She, with dewy eyes downlooking, grew more beauteous than before!

When they neared the silent homestead, up he raised the pitcher light;

Like a fitting crown he placed it on her hair of wavelets bright:

Emblems of the coming burdens that for love of him she'd bear,

Calling every burden blessed, if his love but light

ed there.

Then, still waving benedictions, further, further off he drew,

While his shadow seemed a glory that across the pathway grew.

Now about her household duties silently the maid

en went,

And an ever-radiant halo o'er her daily life was

blent.

Little knew the aged matron as her feet like music fell,

What abundant treasure found she fetching water from the well!

ANONYMOUS.

A MAIDEN WITH A MILKING-PAIL.

WHAT change has made the pastures sweet, And reached the daisies at my feet,

And cloud that wears a golden hem? This lovely world, the hills, the award, They all look fresh, as if our Lord

But yesterday had finished them.

And here's the field with light aglow: How fresh its boundary lime-trees show!

And how its wet leaves trembling shine! Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sea,

Below the level browzing line.

I see the pool, more clear by half Than pools where other waters laugh

Up at the breasts of coot and rail. There, as she passed it on her way, I saw reflected yesterday

A maiden with a milking-pail.

« Vorige Doorgaan »

Boeken

A Library of Poetry and Song: Being Choice Selections from the Best Poets ...