Charmides and Other Poems Part 7

SONNETS

HELAS!

To drift with every pa.s.sion till my soul Is a stringed lute on which can winds can play, Is it for this that I have given away Mine ancient wisdom and austere control?

Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll Scrawled over on some boyish holiday With idle songs for pipe and virelay, Which do but mar the secret of the whole.

Surely there was a time I might have trod The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of G.o.d: Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod I did but touch the honey of romance - And must I lose a soul's inheritance?

TO MILTON

Milton! I think thy spirit hath pa.s.sed away From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers; This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey, And the age changed unto a mimic play Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours: For all our pomp and pageantry and powers We are but fit to delve the common clay, Seeing this little isle on which we stand, This England, this sea-lion of the sea, By ignorant demagogues is held in fee, Who love her not: Dear G.o.d! is this the land Which bare a triple empire in her hand When Cromwell spake the word Democracy!

ON THE Ma.s.sACRE OF THE CHRISTIANS IN BULGARIA

Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?

And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?

For here the air is horrid with men's groans, The priests who call upon Thy name are slain, Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain From those whose children lie upon the stones?

Come down, O Son of G.o.d! incestuous gloom Curtains the land, and through the starless night Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!

If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!

HOLY WEEK AT GENOA

I wandered through Scoglietto's far retreat, The oranges on each o'erhanging spray Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day; Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay: And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay Laughed i' the sun, and life seemed very sweet.

Outside the young boy-priest pa.s.sed singing clear, 'Jesus the son of Mary has been slain, O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.'

Ah, G.o.d! Ah, G.o.d! those dear h.e.l.lenic hours Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain, The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.

URBS SACRA AETERNA

Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been; In the first days thy sword republican Ruled the whole world for many an age's span: Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen, Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen; And now upon thy walls the breezes fan (Ah, city crowned by G.o.d, discrowned by man!) The hated flag of red and white and green.

When was thy glory! when in search for power Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun, And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod?

Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour, When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One, The prisoned shepherd of the Church of G.o.d.

MONTRE MARIO

E TENEBRIS

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand, For I am drowning in a stormier sea Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee: The wine of life is spilt upon the sand, My heart is as some famine-murdered land Whence all good things have perished utterly, And well I know my soul in h.e.l.l must lie If I this night before G.o.d's throne should stand.

'He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase, Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name From morn to noon on Carmel's smitten height.'

Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night, The feet of bra.s.s, the robe more white than flame, The wounded hands, the weary human face.

AT VERONA

How steep the stairs within King's houses are For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread, And O how salt and bitter is the bread Which falls from this Hound's table, - better far That I had died in the red ways of war, Or that the gate of Florence bare my head, Than to live thus, by all things comraded Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.

'Curse G.o.d and die: what better hope than this?

He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss Of his gold city, and eternal day' - Nay peace: behind my prison's blinded bars I do possess what none can take away, My love and all the glory of the stars.

ON THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS' LOVE LETTERS

These are the letters which Endymion wrote To one he loved in secret, and apart.

And now the brawlers of the auction mart Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note, Ay! for each separate pulse of pa.s.sion quote The merchant's price. I think they love not art Who break the crystal of a poet's heart That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.

Is it not said that many years ago, In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran With torches through the midnight, and began To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw Dice for the garments of a wretched man, Not knowing the G.o.d's wonder, or His woe?

THE NEW REMORSE

The sin was mine; I did not understand.

So now is music prisoned in her cave, Save where some ebbing desultory wave Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.

And in the withered hollow of this land Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave, That hardly can the leaden willow crave One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.