The Triumph Of Music Part 8

In cla.s.sic beauty, cold, immaculate, A voiceful sculpture, stern and still she stands, Upon her brow deep chiseled love and hate, That sorrow o'er dead roses in her hands.

THE SIRENS.

Wail! wail! and smite your lyres' sonorous gold, And beckon naked beauty from the sea In arms and b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips of G.o.dly mold, Dark, strangling hair carousing to the knee.

In vain! in vain! and dull in unclosed ears To one loved voice sweet calling o'er the foam, Which in my heart like some strong hand appears To gently, firmly draw my vessel home.

THE VINTAGER.

Among the fragrant grapes she bows; Long, violet cl.u.s.ters heap her hands; About her satyr throats and brows Flush at her smiled commands.

And from her sun-burnt throat at times, As bubbles burst on new-made wine, A happy fit of merry rhymes Rings down the hills of vine.

From out one heart, remorseless sweet, She plucked the big-grape pa.s.sion there; Trod in the wine-press of her feet, It grew into despair:

Until she drained its honeyed must, Which, tingling inward part by part, Fierce mounted thro' her glowing bust And centered in her heart.

A STORMY SUNSET.

1

Soul of my body! what a death For such a day of envious gloom, Unbroken pa.s.sion of the sky!

As if the pure, kind-hearted breath Of some soft power, ever nigh, Had, cleaving in the bitter sheath, Burst from its grave a gorgeous bloom.

2

The majesty of clouds that swarm.

Expanding in a furious length Of molten-metal petals, flows Unutterable, and where the warm, Full fire is centered, swims and glows The evening star fresh-faced with strength, A shimmering rain-drop of the storm.

ON A DIAL.

1

To-morrow and to-morrow Is but to-day: The world wags but to borrow Time that grows gray:-- Grammercy! time's but sorrow And--well away!

2

Since time hales but to sadness And to decay, Men needs wax fools for madness, Laugh, curse, and pray; Death grapples with their badness-- The Devil's to pay.

UNUTTERABLE.

There is a sorrow in the wind to-night That haunteth me; she, like a penitent, Heaps on rent hairs the snow's thin ashes white And moans and moans, her swaying body bent.

And Superst.i.tion gliding softly shakes With wasted hands, that vainly grope and seek, The rustling curtains; of each cranny makes Cold, ghostly lips that wailing fain would speak.

MIDSUMMER.

The red blood clings in her cheeks and stings Through their tan with a fever that lightens, And the clearness of heaven-born mountain springs In her dark eyes dusks and brightens.

And her limbs are the limbs of an Atalanta who swings With the youths in the sinewy games, When the hot air sings thro' the hair it flings, And the circus roars hoa.r.s.e with their names, As they fly to the goal that flames.

A voice as deep as wan waters that sweep Thro' the musical reeds of a river; A song of red reapers that bind and reap, With the ring of curved scythes that quiver.

The note-like lisp of the pippins that leap, Ripe-mellowed to gold, to the ground; The murmurous sleep that the cool leaves keep On close lips that trickle with sound.

And sweet is the beat of her glowing feet, And her smiles as wide heavens are gracious; And the creating might of her hands of heat As a G.o.d's or a G.o.ddess's s.p.a.cious.

The elastic veins thro' her heart that beat Are rich with a perishless fire, And her bosoms most sweet are the ardent seat Of a mother that never will tire.

Wherever she fares her soft voice bears High powers of being that thicken In fruits, as the winds made Thessalian mares Of old mysteriously quicken; The apricots' juice and the juice of the pears, The wine great grape-cl.u.s.ters hold, These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declares In her corn's vast billows of gold.

All hail to her lips, and her fruitful hips, And her motherly thickness of tresses; All hail to the sweetness that slips and drips From her b.r.e.a.s.t.s which the light caresses.

A toiler, whose fair arm heaps and whips Great chariots that heavily creak; A worker, who sweats on the groaning ships.

And never grows weary or weak.

A FAIRY CAVALIER.

By a mushroom in the moon, White as bud from budded berry, Silver buckles on my shoon,-- Ho! the moon shines merry.

Here I sit and drink my grog,-- Stocks and tunic ouphen yellow, Skinned from belly of a frog,-- Quite a fine, fierce fellow.