Poems by George Meredith Volume I Part 32

Match her ye across the sea, Natures fond and fiery; Ye who zest the turtle's nest With the eagle's eyrie.

Soft and loving is her soul, Swift and lofty soaring; Mixing with its dove-like dole Pa.s.sionate adoring.

III

Such a she who'll match with me?

In flying or pursuing, Subtle wiles are in her smiles To set the world a-wooing.

She is steadfast as a star, And yet the maddest maiden: She can wage a gallant war, And give the peace of Eden.

BY MORNING TWILIGHT

Night, like a dying mother, Eyes her young offspring, Day.

The birds are dreamily piping.

And O, my love, my darling!

The night is life ebb'd away: Away beyond our reach!

A sea that has cast us pale on the beach; Weeds with the weeds and the pebbles That hear the lone tamarisk rooted in sand Sway With the song of the sea to the land.

UNKNOWN FAIR FACES

Though I am faithful to my loves lived through, And place them among Memory's great stars, Where burns a face like Hesper: one like Mars: Of visages I get a moment's view, Sweet eyes that in the heaven of me, too, Ascend, tho' virgin to my life they pa.s.sed.

Lo, these within my destiny seem gla.s.sed At times so bright, I wish that Hope were new.

A gracious freckled lady, tall and grave, Went, in a shawl voluminous and white, Last sunset by; and going sow'd a glance.

Earth is too poor to hold a second chance; I will not ask for more than Fortune gave: My heart she goes from--never from my sight!

SHEMSELNIHAR

O my lover! the night like a broad smooth wave Bears us onward, and morn, a black rock, shines wet.

How I shuddered--I knew not that I was a slave, Till I looked on thy face:- then I writhed in the net.

Then I felt like a thing caught by fire, that her star Glowed dark on the bosom of Shemselnihar.

And he came, whose I am: O my lover! he came: And his slave, still so envied of women, was I: And I turned as a hissing leaf spits from the flame, Yes, I shrivelled to dust from him, haggard and dry.

O forgive her:- she was but as dead lilies are: The life of her heart fled from Shemselnihar.

Yet with thee like a full throbbing rose how I bloom!

Like a rose by the fountain whose showering we hear, As we lie, O my lover! in this rich gloom, Smelling faint the cool breath of the lemon-groves near.

As we lie gazing out on that glowing great star - Ah! dark on the bosom of Shemselnihar.

Yet with thee am I not as an arm of the vine, Firm to bind thee, to cherish thee, feed thee sweet?

Swear an oath on my lip to let none disentwine The life that here fawns to give warmth to thy feet.

I on thine, thus! no more shall that jewelled Head jar The music thou breathest on Shemselnihar.

Far away, far away, where the wandering scents Of all flowers are sweetest, white mountains among, There my kindred abide in their green and blue tents: Bear me to them, my lover! they lost me so young.

Let us slip down the stream and leap steed till afar None question thy claim upon Shemselnihar.

O that long note the bulbul gave out--meaning love!

O my lover, hark to him and think it my voice!

The blue night like a great bell-flower from above Drooping low and gold-eyed: O, but hear him rejoice!

Can it be? 'twas a flash! that accurst scimiter In thought even cuts thee from Shemselnihar.

Yes, I would that, less generous, he would oppress, He would chain me, upbraid me, burn deep brands for hate, Than with this mask of freedom and gorgeousness Bespangle my slavery, mock my strange fate.

Would, would, would, O my lover, he knew--dared debar Thy coming, and earn curse of Shemselnihar!

A ROAR THROUGH THE TALL TWIN ELM-TREES

A roar thro' the tall twin elm-trees The mustering storm betrayed: The South-wind seized the willow That over the water swayed.

Then fell the steady deluge In which I strove to doze, Hearing all night at my window The knock of the winter rose.

The rainy rose of winter!

An outcast it must pine.

And from thy bosom outcast Am I, dear lady mine.

WHEN I WOULD IMAGE

When I would image her features, Comes up a shrouded head: I touch the outlines, shrinking; She seems of the wandering dead.

But when love asks for nothing, And lies on his bed of snow, The face slips under my eyelids, All in its living glow.

Like a dark cathedral city, Whose spires, and domes, and towers Quiver in violet lightnings, My soul basks on for hours.

THE SPIRIT OF SHAKESPEARE

Thy greatest knew thee, Mother Earth; unsoured He knew thy sons. He probed from h.e.l.l to h.e.l.l Of human pa.s.sions, but of love deflowered His wisdom was not, for he knew thee well.

Thence came the honeyed corner at his lips, The conquering smile wherein his spirit sails Calm as the G.o.d who the white sea-wave whips, Yet full of speech and intershifting tales, Close mirrors of us: thence had he the laugh We feel is thine: broad as ten thousand beeves At pasture! thence thy songs, that winnow chaff From grain, bid sick Philosophy's last leaves Whirl, if they have no response--they enforced To fatten Earth when from her soul divorced.