Poems by George Meredith Volume I Part 11

So am I in thy sole, sweet glance Pressed with a weight of utterance; Lovingly all my leaves unfold, And gleam to the beams of thirsty gold.

At eve I droop, for then the swell Of feeling falters forth farewell; - At midnight I am dreaming deep, Of what has been, in blissful sleep.

When--ah! when will love's own fight Wed me alike thro' day and night, When will the stars with their linking charms Wake us in each other's arms?

SONG

Thou to me art such a spring As the Arab seeks at eve, Thirsty from the shining sands; There to bathe his face and hands, While the sun is taking leave, And dewy sleep is a delicious thing.

Thou to me art such a dream As he dreams upon the gra.s.s, While the bubbling coolness near Makes sweet music in his ear; And the stars that slowly pa.s.s In solitary grandeur o'er him gleam.

Thou to me art such a dawn As the dawn whose ruddy kiss Wakes him to his darling steed; And again the desert speed, And again the desert bliss, Lightens thro' his veins, and he is gone!

ANTIGONE

The buried voice bespake Antigone.

'O sister! couldst thou know, as thou wilt know, The bliss above, the reverence below, Enkindled by thy sacrifice for me; Thou wouldst at once with holy ecstasy Give thy warm limbs into the yearning earth.

Sleep, Sister! for Elysium's dawning birth, - And faith will fill thee with what is to be!

Sleep, for the G.o.ds are watching over thee!

Thy dream will steer thee to perform their will, As silently their influence they instil.

O Sister! in the sweetness of thy prime, Thy hand has plucked the bitter flower of death; But this will dower thee with Elysian breath, That fade into a never-fading clime.

Dear to the G.o.ds are those that do like thee A solemn duty! for the tyranny Of kings is feeble to the soul that dares Defy them to fulfil its sacred cares: And weak against a mighty will are men.

O, Torch between two brothers! in whose gleam Our slaughtered House doth shine as one again, Tho' severed by the sword; now may thy dream Kindle desire in thee for us, and thou, Forgetting not thy lover and his vow, Leaving no human memory forgot, Shalt cross, not unattended, the dark stream Which runs by thee in sleep and ripples not.

The large stars glitter thro' the anxious night, And the deep sky broods low to look at thee: The air is hush'd and dark o'er land and sea, And all is waiting for the morrow light: So do thy kindred spirits wait for thee.

O Sister! soft as on the downward rill, Will those first daybeams from the distant hill Fall on the smoothness of thy placid brow, Like this calm sweetness breathing thro' me now: And when the fated sounds shall wake thine eyes, Wilt thou, confiding in the supreme will, In all thy maiden steadfastness arise, Firm to obey and earnest to fulfil; Remembering the night thou didst not sleep, And this same brooding sky beheld thee creep, Defiant of unnatural decree, To where I lay upon the outcast land; Before the iron gates upon the plain; A wretched, graveless ghost, whose wailing chill Came to thy darkened door imploring thee; Yearning for burial like my brother slain; - And all was dared for love and piety!

This thought will nerve again thy virgin hand To serve its purpose and its destiny.'

She woke, they led her forth, and all was still.

Swathed round in mist and crown'd with cloud, O Mountain! hid from peak to base - Caught up into the heavens and clasped In white ethereal arms that make Thy mystery of size sublime!

What eye or thought can measure now Thy grand dilating loftiness!

What giant crest dispute with thee Supremacy of air and sky!

What fabled height with thee compare!

Not those vine-terraced hills that seethe The lava in their fiery cusps; Nor that high-climbing robe of snow, Whose summits touch the morning star, And breathe the thinnest air of life; Nor crocus-couching Ida, warm With Juno's latest nuptial lure; Nor Tenedos whose dreamy eye Still looks upon beleaguered Troy; Nor yet Olympus crown'd with G.o.ds Can boast a majesty like thine, O Mountain! hid from peak to base, And image of the awful power With which the secret of all things, That stoops from heaven to garment earth, Can speak to any human soul, When once the earthly limits lose Their pointed heights and sharpened lines, And measureless immensity Is palpable to sense and sight.

SONG

No, no, the falling blossom is no sign Of loveliness destroy'd and sorrow mute; The blossom sheds its loveliness divine; - Its mission is to prophecy the fruit.

Nor is the day of love for ever dead, When young enchantment and romance are gone; The veil is drawn, but all the future dread Is lightened by the finger of the dawn.

Love moves with life along a darker way, They cast a shadow and they call it death: But rich is the fulfilment of their day; The purer pa.s.sion and the firmer faith.

THE TWO BLACKBIRDS

A blackbird in a wicker cage, That hung and swung 'mid fruits and flowers, Had learnt the song-charm, to a.s.suage The drearness of its wingless hours.

And ever when the song was heard, From trees that shade the gra.s.sy plot Warbled another glossy bird, Whose mate not long ago was shot.

Strange anguish in that creature's breast, Unwept like human grief, unsaid, Has quickened in its lonely nest A living impulse from the dead.

Not to console its own wild smart, - But with a kindling instinct strong, The novel feeling of its heart Beats for the captive bird of song.

And when those mellow notes are still, It hops from off its choral perch, O'er path and sward, with busy bill, All grateful gifts to peck and search.

Store of ouzel dainties choice To those white swinging bars it brings; And with a low consoling voice It talks between its fluttering wings.

Deeply in their bitter grief Those sufferers reciprocate, The one sings for its woodland life, The other for its murdered mate.

But deeper doth the secret prove, Uniting those sad creatures so; Humanity's great link of love, The common sympathy of woe.

Well divined from day to day Is the swift speech between them twain; For when the bird is scared away, The captive bursts to song again.

Yet daily with its flattering voice, Talking amid its fluttering wings, Store of ouzel dainties choice With busy bill the poor bird brings.

And shall I say, till weak with age Down from its drowsy branch it drops, It will not leave that captive cage, Nor cease those busy searching hops?

Ah, no! the moral will not strain; Another sense will make it range, Another mate will soothe its pain, Another season work a change.

But thro' the live-long summer, tried, A pure devotion we may see; The ebb and flow of Nature's tide; A self-forgetful sympathy.

JULY

I

Blue July, bright July, Month of storms and gorgeous blue; Violet lightnings o'er thy sky, Heavy falls of drenching dew; Summer crown! o'er glen and glade Shrinking hyacinths in their shade; I welcome thee with all thy pride, I love thee like an Eastern bride.