Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems Part 31

Oh, I have lov'd ye more than may be told, And deem'd it fairy-gold,-- And fairy-silver,--that ye bear withal; Ye are so soft and small, I weep for joy to find ye here to-day So near to Heaven, and yet so far away, In our good ocean-ship, whose bows are wet with spray.

VII.

Ye are the cynosure of many eyes Bright-blue as English skies,-- The sailors' eyes that scan ye in a row, As if intent to show That this dear freight of mould and meadow-flower Which sails the sea, in sunshine and in shower, Is England's gift of love, which storms shall not devour.

VIII.

She sends ye forth in sadness and in joy, As one may send a toy To children's children, bred in other lands By love-abiding hands.

And, day by day, ye sail upon the foam To call to mind the sires' and mothers' home, Where babes, now grown to men, were wont of yore to roam.

IX.

In England's name, in Shakespeare's,--and in ours, Who bear these trusted flowers,-- There shall be heard a cheer from many throats, A rush and roar of notes, As loud, and proud, as those of heavenward birds; And they who till the ground and tend the herds Will read our thoughts therein, and clothe the same in words.

X.

For England's sake, for England once again, In pride and power and pain, For England, aye! for England in the girth Of all her joy and worth, A strong and clear, outspoken, undefined, And uncontroll'd wild shout upon the wind, Will greet these winsome flowers as friends of human-kind!

Sonnets.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

I.

ECSTASY.

I cannot sing to thee as I would sing If I were quickened like the holy lark With fire from Heaven and sunlight on his wing, Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark Renewed in rapture in the reddening air.

A thing of splendour do I deem him then, A feather'd frenzy with an angel's throat, A something sweet that somewhere seems to float 'Twixt earth and sky, to be a sign to men.

He fills me with such wonder and despair!

I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright, As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun.

Oh! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one, And do thou teach me, Love, to sing aright!

II.

VISIONS.

The Poet meets Apollo on the hill, And Pan and Flora and the Paphian Queen, And infant naads bathing in the rill, And dryad maids that dance upon the green, And fauns and Oreads in the silver sheen They wear in summer, when the air is still.

He quaffs the wine of life, and quaffs his fill, And sees Creation through its mask terrene.

The dead are wise, for they alone can see As see the bards,--as see, beyond the dust, The eyes of babes. The dead alone are just.

There is no comfort in the bitter fee That scholars pay for fame. True sage is he Who doubts all doubt, and takes the soul on trust.

III.

THE DAISY.

See where it stands, the world-appointed flower, Pure gold at centre, like the sun at noon,-- A mimic sun to light a true-love bower For fair Queen Mab, now dead or in a swoon, Whom late a poet saw beneath the moon.

It lifts its dainty face till sunset hour, As if endowed with nympholeptic power,-- Then shuts its petals like a folding tune!

I love it more than words of mine can say, And more than anchorite may breathe in prayer.

Methinks the lark has made it still his care To brag of daisies to the lord of day.

Well! I will follow suit, as best I may, Launching my love-songs on the summer air.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

IV.

PROBATION.

Could I, O Love! obtain a charter clear To be thy bard, in all thy nights and days, I would consult the stars, from year to year, And talk with trees, and learn of them their ways, And why the nymphs so seldom now appear In human form, with rapt and earnest gaze; And I would learn of thee why joy decays, And why the Fauns have ceas'd to flourish here.

I would, in answer to the wind's "Alas!"

Explain the causes of a sorrow's flight; I would peruse the writing on the gra.s.s Which flowers have traced in blue and red and white; And, reading these, I would, as from a pen, Read thoughts of thine unguess'd by other men!

V.

DANTE.

He liv'd and lov'd; he suffer'd; he was poor; But he was gifted with the gifts of Heaven, And those of all the week-days that are seven, And those of all the centuries that endure.

He bow'd to none; he kept his honour sure.

He follow'd in the wake of those Eleven Who walk'd with Christ, and lifted up his steven[A]

To keep the bulwarks of his faith secure.

He knew the secrets of the singing-time; He track'd the sun; he ate the luscious fruit Of grief and joy; and with his wonder-lute He made himself a name in every clime.

The minds of men were madly stricken mute And all the world lay subject to his rhyme!