The Poems of William Watson Part 10

From Sh.e.l.ley's dazzling glow or thunderous haze, From Byron's tempest-anger, tempest-mirth, Men turned to thee and found--not blast and blaze, Tumult of tottering heavens, but peace on earth,

Nor peace that grows by Lethe, scentless flower, There in white languors to decline and cease; But peace whose names are also rapture, power, Clear sight, and love: for these are parts of peace.

III

I hear it vouched the Muse is with us still;-- If less divinely frenzied than of yore, In lieu of feelings she has wondrous skill To simulate emotion felt no more.

Not such the authentic Presence pure, that made This valley vocal in the great days gone!-- In _his_ great days, while yet the spring-time played About him, and the mighty morning shone.

No word-mosaic artificer, he sang A lofty song of lowly weal and dole.

Right from the heart, right to the heart it sprang, Or from the soul leapt instant to the soul.

He felt the charm of childhood, grace of youth, Grandeur of age, insisting to be sung.

The impa.s.sioned argument was simple truth Half-wondering at its own melodious tongue.

Impa.s.sioned? ay, to the song's ecstatic core!

But far removed were clangour, storm and feud; For plenteous health was his, exceeding store Of joy, and an impa.s.sioned quietude.

IV

A hundred years ere he to manhood came, Song from celestial heights had wandered down, Put off her robe of sunlight, dew and flame, And donned a modish dress to charm the Town.

Thenceforth she but festooned the porch of things; Apt at life's lore, incurious what life meant.

Dextrous of hand, she struck her lute's few strings; Ign.o.bly perfect, barrenly content.

Unflushed with ardour and unblanched with awe, Her lips in profitless derision curled, She saw with dull emotion--if she saw-- The vision of the glory of the world.

The human masque she watched, with dreamless eyes In whose clear shallows lurked no trembling shade: The stars, unkenned by her, might set and rise, Unmarked by her, the daisies bloom and fade.

The age grew sated with her sterile wit.

Herself waxed weary on her loveless throne.

Men felt life's tide, the sweep and surge of it, And craved a living voice, a natural tone.

For none the less, though song was but half true, The world lay common, one abounding theme.

Man joyed and wept, and fate was ever new, And love was sweet, life real, death no dream.

In sad stern verse the rugged scholar-sage Bemoaned his toil unvalued, youth uncheered.

His numbers wore the vesture of the age, But, 'neath it beating, the great heart was heard.

From dewy pastures, uplands sweet with thyme, A virgin breeze freshened the jaded day.

It wafted Collins' lonely vesper-chime, It breathed abroad the frugal note of Gray.

It fluttered here and there, nor swept in vain The dusty haunts where futile echoes dwell,-- Then, in a cadence soft as summer rain, And sad from Auburn voiceless, drooped and fell.

It drooped and fell, and one 'neath northern skies, With southern heart, who tilled his father's field, Found Poesy a-dying, bade her rise And touch quick nature's hem and go forth healed.

On life's broad plain the ploughman's conquering share Upturned the fallow lands of truth anew, And o'er the formal garden's trim parterre The peasant's team a ruthless furrow drew.

Bright was his going forth, but clouds ere long Whelmed him; in gloom his radiance set, and those Twin morning stars of the new century's song, Those morning stars that sang together, rose.

In elvish speech the _Dreamer_ told his tale Of marvellous oceans swept by fateful wings.-- The _Seer_ strayed not from earth's human pale, But the mysterious face of common things

He mirrored as the moon in Rydal Mere Is mirrored, when the breathless night hangs blue: Strangely remote she seems and wondrous near, And by some nameless difference born anew.

V

Peace--peace--and rest! Ah, how the lyre is loth, Or powerless now, to give what all men seek!

Either it deadens with ign.o.ble sloth Or deafens with shrill tumult, loudly weak.

Where is the singer whose large notes and clear Can heal and arm and plenish and sustain?

Lo, one with empty music floods the ear, And one, the heart refreshing, tires the brain.

And idly tuneful, the loquacious throng Flutter and twitter, prodigal of time, And little masters make a toy of song Till grave men weary of the sound of rhyme.

And some go prankt in faded antique dress, Abhorring to be hale and glad and free; And some parade a conscious naturalness, The scholar's not the child's simplicity.

Enough;--and wisest who from words forbear.

The kindly river rails not as it glides; And suave and charitable, the winning air Chides not at all, or only him who chides.

VI

Nature! we storm thine ear with choric notes.

Thou answerest through the calm great nights and days, "Laud me who will: not tuneless are your throats; Yet if ye paused I should not miss the praise."

We falter, half-rebuked, and sing again.

We chant thy desertness and haggard gloom, Or with thy splendid wrath inflate the strain, Or touch it with thy colour and perfume.

One, his melodious blood aflame for thee, Wooed with fierce l.u.s.t, his hot heart world-defiled.

One, with the upward eye of infancy, Looked in thy face, and felt himself thy child.

Thee he approached without distrust or dread-- Beheld thee throned, an awful queen, above-- Climbed to thy lap and merely laid his head Against thy warm wild heart of mother-love.

He heard that vast heart beating--thou didst press Thy child so close, and lov'dst him unaware.

Thy beauty gladdened him; yet he scarce less Had loved thee, had he never found thee fair!

For thou wast not as legendary lands To which with curious eyes and ears we roam.

Nor wast thou as a fane mid solemn sands, Where palmers halt at evening. Thou wast home.

And here, at home, still bides he; but he sleeps; Not to be wakened even at thy word; Though we, vague dreamers, dream he somewhere keeps An ear still open to thy voice still heard,--

Thy voice, as heretofore, about him blown, For ever blown about his silence now; Thy voice, though deeper, yet so like his own That almost, when he sang, we deemed 'twas thou!

VII