The Three Hills, and Other Poems Part 8

1842

So proud your port, your arm so powerful, With such a grip you grip the G.o.ddess' hair, That one might take you, from your casual air, For a young ruffian flinging down his trull.

Your clear eye flashing with precocity, You have displayed yourself proud architect Of fabrics so audaciously correct That we may guess what your ripe prime will be.

Poet, our blood ebbs out through every pore; Is it, perchance, the robe the Centaur bore, Which made a sullen streamlet of each vein,

Was three times dipped within the venom fell Of those old reptiles fierce and terrible Whom, in his cradle, Hercules had slain?

MUSIC

Oft Music, as it were some moving mighty sea, Bears me towards my pale Star: in clear s.p.a.ce, or 'neath a vaporous canopy On-floating, I set sail.

With heaving chest which strains forward, and lungs outblown, I climb the ridged steeps Of those high-piled clouds which 'thwart the night are thrown, Veiling its starry deeps.

I suffer all the throes, within my quivering form, Of a great ship in pain, Now a soft wind, and now the writhings of a storm

Upon the vasty main Rock me: at other times a death-like calm, the bare Mirror of my despair.

THE CATS

The lover and the stern philosopher Both love, in their ripe time, the confident Soft cats, the house's chiefest ornament, Who like themselves are cold and seldom stir.

Of knowledge and of pleasure amorous, Silence they seek and Darkness' fell domain; Had not their proud souls scorned to brook his rein, They would have made grim steeds for Erebus.

Pensive they rest in n.o.ble att.i.tudes Like great stretched sphinxes in vast solitudes Which seem to sleep wrapt in an endless dream;

Their fruitful loins are full of sparks divine, And gleams of gold within their pupils shine As 'twere within the shadow of a stream.

THE SADNESS OF THE MOON

This evening the Moon dreams more languidly, Like a beauty who on mounded cushions rests, And with her light hand fondles lingeringly, Before she sleeps, the slope of her sweet b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

On her soft satined avalanches' height Dying, she laps herself for hours and hours In long, long swoons, and gazes at the white Visions which rise athwart the blue like flowers.

When sometimes in her perfect indolence She lets a furtive tear steal gently thence, Some pious poet, a lone, sleepless one,

Takes in his hollowed hand this gem, shot through, Like an opal stone, with gleams of every hue, And in his heart's depths hides it from the sun.

MOESTA ET ERRABUNDA

Agatha, tell me, does thy heart not ache, Plunged in this squalid city's filthy sea, For another ocean where the splendours break Blue, clear, and deep as is virginity.

Agatha, tell me, does thy heart not ache?

The sea, the sea unending, comforts us!

What demon gave the hoa.r.s.e old sea who sings To her mumbling hurricanes' organ thunderous The G.o.d-like power to cradle sorrowful things?

The sea, the sea unending, comforts us.

Carry me, wagon, bear me, barque, away!

Far! Far! For here the mud is made of tears!

Does Agatha's sad heart not sometimes say: "O far from shudderings and crimes and fears, Carry me, wagon; bear me barque, away?"

How far thou art, O scented paradise, O paradise where all is love and joy, Where all is worthy love 'neath the azure skies, And the heart drowns in bliss without alloy!

How far thou art, O scented paradise!

But the green paradise of childish loves, The games, the songs, the kisses and the flowers, The laughing draughts of wine in hidden groves, The violins throbbing through the twilight hours, --But the green paradise of childish loves,

The artless paradise of stealthy joys, Is that already leagues beyond Cathay?

And can one, with a little plaintive noise, Bring it again that is so far away-- The artless paradise of stealthy joys?

THE OWLS

'Neath their black yews in solemn state The owls are sitting in a row Like foreign G.o.ds; and even so Blink their red eyes; they meditate.

Quite motionless they hold them thus Until at last the day is done, And driving down the slanting sun, The sad night is victorious.

They teach the wise who gives them ear That in this world he most should fear All things which loud or restless be.

Who, dazzled by a pa.s.sing shade, Follows it, never will be free Till the dread penalty be paid.

FINISH