Divine Adventures Part 8

Or dreamed, in fragrant greenery, O'er some sweet sea romance?

Was't haughty King, or was it slave, In its unknown kingdom there?

Or loved, in elfin grot or cave, Some sweet sh.e.l.l-maiden fair?

Alas! like some old haunted palace, The silence, how profound!

Where mem'ry's drunk from death's deep chalice, And turned the chalice down.

TO THE TRAVELLER

Because thy winged spirit ever craves Then must thou range wide seas and distant lands-- To see, to know, thy burning thirst demands No sweeter drink. To kneel in sainted naves For art sake; marvel by Egyptian graves; Seek paynim shrines with strange fantastic bands Or pause to weep where sad Pompeii stands, So richly jewelled in her granite waves.

Ah! 'Tis to know, till every cup is drained, And pa.s.sion wane in pale satiety.

Then but to dare the boundless unattained,-- Thy self a world, thy thirst its history.

Ah! such a world! such wash of human waves On human sh.o.r.es, where still the thirst enslaves.

SONG TO DEATH

Ah Death! what a weakling art makes thee-- The art of the frighten'd to death; Gay curtains where glory forsakes thee-- A straw for the clutching last breath.

Where finds in religion a balm So soothing, so cool and so far?

What solemn great hush and what calm?

Degraded to Portals ajar!

O where is the lyric of rest--?

O where is the song of the soul--?

Unfettered, unmastered, undrest A nude and a beautiful whole.

O where is thy lyric of room,-- Unclouded immeasurable night?

O where is the song of the doom Still flawless of hope or afright--?

Ah! cool as the night is the song The dewy fresh song of my soul, Sung always far over the throng To a dewy unblemishing goal;

Some music still wand'ring, unstrung Ungarnished, unmastered with art, That haply some feverish young May garner for treasure of heart.

But never the song that is sung-- The sweet measured tongue laps of art, That silvers old age for the young, Or maketh a ball room of heart.

Too great is the prestige O! Death, Where Day ever bendeth at noon For false chanting, or clutching for breath At sight of the guerdon so soon.

Too great is thy prestige O! Death!

To flatter with scorn or with fright.

No promise so vain as that breath, So great so great is thy night!

THE MAGICAL RING

'Tis an ash circled bower, Of berries and musk, And the fairies' first hour, Neither daylight nor dusk;

And fancy is thridding In vistas of green, Where the moth is out bidding The c.o.c.k for his sheen;

And the bee with his treasure, Is at rest on a stone-- The measure of pleasure, The depth of his own;

The blue-bells are tinkling, The mocking birds woo,-- In a beautiful sprinkling Of scintilant dew,

Far down in the gra.s.ses, In a magical ring, A clinking their gla.s.ses, Sits Puck and the King.

"Methinks, saith the King, If the dome of our palace, Were as happy a thing, As the dome in this chalice,

"Of glittering dew, And half so resplendent, As fancy is too, In this liquor impendent;

"Methinks, saith the King, Then life were as jolly, In this magical ring, As its spirit of folly;

"Methinks, saith the King, t.i.tania were sweeter, And this magical ring Were magic completer.

"For the vixen is wild, With this Squire from the highlands-- Like a sailor beguiled, To magical islands,

"At sound of a voice, To plunge in the sea foam, And, dying, rejoice, That the island should be foam.

"Methinks, saith the King This rascal were better, Far out of the ring, In handcuff and fetter.

"For he talketh of love, And faith, hope, and charity, And a spirit above, As the spirit of parity.

"And thou, saith the King, Hath certain the gumption, To see thus the spring Of pleasure's consumption.

"Of late thou hast wandered, To see and be seen, And much thou hast squandered My riches, I ween.

"Relate thine indentures, Important of state, And all thine adventures, Of worth to relate."

_Saith Puck_

"A trace of wine's on the breath of summer, And the spirit of June is a pure delight, And the brimmer of light is sparkling and bright With a cheer for the gladdest comer.

"Aloft in the oak a dove was cooing, And a little gray bird on sycamore twig, Was a pause abreath with a feathery sprig, And flittered away to his wooing.

"I peep'd in a bloom and a bee was in it, I peered on a leaf and a moth slept there.

Ah! was ever a dream so deliciously rare, And all for a tip-toed minute!"

Then Oberon winketh, Reward to his Puck, And solemnly drinketh, The nation much luck.