Poems by George Meredith Volume I Part 14

IV

Between the two white b.r.e.a.s.t.s of her we love, A dewy blushing rose will sometimes spring; Thus Nonnenwerth like an enchanted thing Rises mid-stream the crystal depths above.

On either side the waters heave and swell, But all is calm within the little Isle; Content it is to give its holy smile, And bless with peace the lives that in it dwell.

Most dear on the dark gra.s.s beneath its bower Of kindred trees embracing branch and bough, To dream of fairy foot and sudden flower; Or haply with a twilight on the brow, To muse upon the legendary hour, And Roland's lonely love and Hildegard's sad vow.

V

Hark! how the bitter winter breezes blow Round the sharp rocks and o'er the half-lifted wave, While all the rocky woodland branches rave Shrill with the piercing cold, and every cave, Along the icy water-margin low, Rings bubbling with the whirling overflow; And sharp the echoes answer distant cries Of dawning daylight and the dim sunrise, And the gloom-coloured clouds that stain the skies With pictures of a warmth, and frozen glow Spread over endless fields of sheeted snow; And white untrodden mountains shining cold, And m.u.f.fled footpaths winding thro' the wold, O'er which those wintry gusts cease not to howl and blow.

VI

Rare is the loveliness of slow decay!

With youth and beauty all must be desired, But 'tis the charm of things long past away, They leave, alone, the light they have inspired: The calmness of a picture; Memory now Is the sole life among the ruins grey, And like a phantom in fantastic play She wanders with rank weeds stuck on her brow, Over gra.s.s-hidden caves and turret-tops, Herself almost as tottering as they; While, to the steps of Time, her latest props Fall stone by stone, and in the Sun's hot ray All that remains stands up in rugged pride, And bridal vines drink in his juices on each side.

TO A NIGHTINGALE

O nightingale! how hast thou learnt The note of the nested dove?

While under thy bower the fern hangs burnt And no cloud hovers above!

Rich July has many a sky With splendour dim, that thou mightst hymn, And make rejoice with thy wondrous voice, And the thrill of thy wild pervading tone!

But instead of to woo, thou hast learnt to coo: Thy song is mute at the mellowing fruit, And the dirge of the flowers is sung by the hours In silence and twilight alone.

O nightingale! 'tis this, 'tis this That makes thee mock the dove!

That thou hast past thy marriage bliss, To know a parent's love.

The waves of fern may fade and burn, The gra.s.ses may fall, the flowers and all, And the pine-smells o'er the oak dells Float on their drowsy and odorous wings, But thou wilt do nothing but coo, Br.i.m.m.i.n.g the nest with thy brooding breast, 'Midst that young throng of future song, Round whom the Future sings!

INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY

Now 'tis Spring on wood and wold, Early Spring that shivers with cold, But gladdens, and gathers, day by day, A lovelier hue, a warmer ray, A sweeter song, a dearer ditty; Ouzel and throstle, new-mated and gay, Singing their bridals on every spray - Oh, hear them, deep in the songless City!

Cast off the yoke of toil and smoke, As Spring is casting winter's grey, As serpents cast their skins away: And come, for the Country awaits thee with pity And longs to bathe thee in her delight, And take a new joy in thy kindling sight; And I no less, by day and night, Long for thy coming, and watch for, and wait thee, And wonder what duties can thus berate thee.

Dry-fruited firs are dropping their cones, And vista'd avenues of pines Take richer green, give fresher tones, As morn after morn the glad sun shines.

Primrose tufts peep over the brooks, Fair faces amid moist decay!

The rivulets run with the dead leaves at play, The leafless elms are alive with the rooks.

Over the meadows the cowslips are springing, The marshes are thick with king-cup gold, Clear is the cry of the lambs in the fold, The skylark is singing, and singing, and singing.

Soon comes the cuckoo when April is fair, And her blue eye the brighter the more it may weep: The frog and the b.u.t.terfly wake from their sleep, Each to its element, water and air.

Mist hangs still on every hill, And curls up the valleys at eve; but noon Is fullest of Spring; and at midnight the moon Gives her westering throne to Orion's bright zone, As he slopes o'er the darkened world's repose; And a l.u.s.tre in eastern Sirius glows.

Come, in the season of opening buds; Come, and molest not the otter that whistles Unlit by the moon, 'mid the wet winter bristles Of willow, half-drowned in the fattening floods.

Let him catch his cold fish without fear of a gun, And the stars shall shield him, and thou wilt shun!

And every little bird under the sun Shall know that the bounty of Spring doth dwell In the winds that blow, in the waters that run, And in the breast of man as well.

THE SWEET O' THE YEAR

Now the frog, all lean and weak, Yawning from his famished sleep, Water in the ditch doth seek, Fast as he can stretch and leap: Marshy king-cups burning near Tell him 'tis the sweet o' the year.

Now the ant works up his mound In the mouldered piny soil, And above the busy ground Takes the joy of earnest toil: Dropping pine-cones, dry and sere, Warn him 'tis the sweet o' the year.

Now the chrysalis on the wall Cracks, and out the creature springs, Raptures in his body small, Wonders on his dusty wings: Bells and cups, all shining clear, Show him 'tis the sweet o' the year.

Now the brown bee, wild and wise, Hums abroad, and roves and roams, Storing in his wealthy thighs Treasure for the golden combs: Dewy buds and blossoms dear Whisper 'tis the sweet o' the year.

Now the merry maids so fair Weave the wreaths and choose the queen, Blooming in the open air, Like fresh flowers upon the green; Spring, in every thought sincere, Thrills them with the sweet o' the year.

Now the lads, all quick and gay, Whistle to the browsing herds, Or in the twilight pastures grey Learn the use of whispered words: First a blush, and then a tear, And then a smile, i' the sweet o' the year.

Now the May-fly and the fish Play again from noon to night; Every breeze begets a wish, Every motion means delight: Heaven high over heath and mere Crowns with blue the sweet o' the year.

Now all Nature is alive, Bird and beetle, man and mole; Bee-like goes the human hive, Lark-like sings the soaring soul: Hearty faith and honest cheer Welcome in the sweet o' the year.

AUTUMN EVEN-SONG

The long cloud edged with streaming grey Soars from the West; The red leaf mounts with it away, Showing the nest A blot among the branches bare: There is a cry of outcasts in the air.

Swift little breezes, darting chill, Pant down the lake; A crow flies from the yellow hill, And in its wake A baffled line of labouring rooks: Steel-surfaced to the light the river looks.

Pale on the panes of the old hall Gleams the lone s.p.a.ce Between the sunset and the squall; And on its face Mournfully glimmers to the last: Great oaks grow mighty minstrels in the blast.

Pale the rain-rutted roadways shine In the green light Behind the cedar and the pine: Come, thundering night!

Blacken broad earth with h.o.a.rds of storm: For me yon valley-cottage beckons warm.

THE SONG OF COURTESY

I

When Sir Gawain was led to his bridal-bed, By Arthur's knights in scorn G.o.d-sped:- How think you he felt?