Underwoods Part 2

EVEN in the bluest noonday of July, There could not run the smallest breath of wind But all the quarter sounded like a wood; And in the chequered silence and above The hum of city cabs that sought the Bois, Suburban ashes shivered into song.

A patter and a chatter and a chirp And a long dying hiss-it was as though Starched old brocaded dames through all the house Had trailed a strident skirt, or the whole sky Even in a wink had over-brimmed in rain.

Hark, in these shady parlours, how it talks Of the near Autumn, how the smitten ash Trembles and augurs floods! O not too long In these inconstant lat.i.tudes delay, O not too late from the unbeloved north Trim your escape! For soon shall this low roof Resound indeed with rain, soon shall your eyes Search the foul garden, search the darkened rooms, Nor find one jewel but the blazing log.

12 _Rue Vernier_, _Paris_.

XIII-TO H. F. BROWN

(Written during a dangerous sickness.)

I SIT and wait a pair of oars On cis-Elysian river-sh.o.r.es.

Where the immortal dead have sate, 'Tis mine to sit and meditate; To re-ascend life's rivulet, Without remorse, without regret; And sing my _Alma Genetrix_ Among the willows of the Styx.

And lo, as my serener soul Did these unhappy sh.o.r.es patrol, And wait with an attentive ear The coming of the gondolier, Your fire-surviving roll I took, Your spirited and happy book; {27} Whereon, despite my frowning fate, It did my soul so recreate That all my fancies fled away On a Venetian holiday.

Now, thanks to your triumphant care, Your pages clear as April air, The sails, the bells, the birds, I know, And the far-off Friulan snow; The land and sea, the sun and shade, And the blue even lamp-inlaid.

For this, for these, for all, O friend, For your whole book from end to end- For Paron Piero's muttonham- I your defaulting debtor am.

Perchance, reviving, yet may I To your sea-paven city hie, And in a _felze_, some day yet Light at your pipe my cigarette.

XIV-TO ANDREW LANG

DEAR Andrew, with the brindled hair, Who glory to have thrown in air, High over arm, the trembling reed, By Ale and Kail, by Till and Tweed: An equal craft of hand you show The pen to guide, the fly to throw: I count you happy starred; for G.o.d, When He with inkpot and with rod Endowed you, bade your fortune lead Forever by the crooks of Tweed, Forever by the woods of song And lands that to the Muse belong; Or if in peopled streets, or in The abhorred pedantic sanhedrim, It should be yours to wander, still Airs of the morn, airs of the hill, The plovery Forest and the seas That break about the Hebrides, Should follow over field and plain And find you at the window pane; And you again see hill and peel, And the bright springs gush at your heel.

So went the fiat forth, and so Garrulous like a brook you go, With sound of happy mirth and sheen Of daylight-whether by the green You fare that moment, or the gray; Whether you dwell in March or May; Or whether treat of reels and rods Or of the old unhappy G.o.ds: Still like a brook your page has shone, And your ink sings of Helicon.

XV-ET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI

(TO R. A. M. S.)

IN ancient tales, O friend, thy spirit dwelt; There, from of old, thy childhood pa.s.sed; and there High expectation, high delights and deeds, Thy fluttering heart with hope and terror moved.

And thou hast heard of yore the Blatant Beast, And Roland's horn, and that war-scattering shout Of all-unarmed Achilles, aegis-crowned And perilous lands thou sawest, sounding sh.o.r.es And seas and forests drear, island and dale And mountain dark. For thou with Tristram rod'st Or Bedevere, in farthest Lyonesse.

Thou hadst a booth in Samarcand, whereat Side-looking Magians trafficked; thence, by night, An Afreet s.n.a.t.c.hed thee, and with wings upbore Beyond the Aral mount; or, hoping gain, Thou, with a jar of money, didst embark, For Balsorah, by sea. But chiefly thou In that clear air took'st life; in Arcady The haunted, land of song; and by the wells Where most the G.o.ds frequent. There Chiron old, In the Pelethronian antre, taught thee lore: The plants, he taught, and by the shining stars In forests dim to steer. There hast thou seen Immortal Pan dance secret in a glade, And, dancing, roll his eyes; these, where they fell, Shed glee, and through the congregated oaks A flying horror winged; while all the earth To the G.o.d's pregnant footing thrilled within.

Or whiles, beside the sobbing stream, he breathed, In his clutched pipe unformed and wizard strains Divine yet brutal; which the forest heard, And thou, with awe; and far upon the plain The unthinking ploughman started and gave ear.

Now things there are that, upon him who sees, A strong vocation lay; and strains there are That whoso hears shall hear for evermore.

For evermore thou hear'st immortal Pan And those melodious G.o.dheads, ever young And ever quiring, on the mountains old.

What was this earth, child of the G.o.ds, to thee?

Forth from thy dreamland thou, a dreamer, cam'st And in thine ears the olden music rang, And in thy mind the doings of the dead, And those heroic ages long forgot.

To a so fallen earth, alas! too late, Alas! in evil days, thy steps return, To list at noon for nightingales, to grow A dweller on the beach till Argo come That came long since, a lingerer by the pool Where that desired angel bathes no more.

As when the Indian to Dakota comes, Or farthest Idaho, and where he dwelt, He with his clan, a humming city finds; Thereon awhile, amazed, he stares, and then To right and leftward, like a questing dog, Seeks first the ancestral altars, then the hearth Long cold with rains, and where old terror lodged, And where the dead. So thee undying Hope, With all her pack, hunts screaming through the years: Here, there, thou fleeest; but nor here nor there The pleasant G.o.ds abide, the glory dwells.

That, that was not Apollo, not the G.o.d.

This was not Venus, though she Venus seemed A moment. And though fair yon river move, She, all the way, from disenchanted fount To seas unhallowed runs; the G.o.ds forsook Long since her trembling rushes; from her plains Disconsolate, long since adventure fled; And now although the inviting river flows, And every poplared cape, and every bend Or willowy islet, win upon thy soul And to thy hopeful shallop whisper speed; Yet hope not thou at all; hope is no more; And O, long since the golden groves are dead The faery cities vanished from the land!

XVI-TO W. E. HENLEY

THE year runs through her phases; rain and sun, Springtime and summer pa.s.s; winter succeeds; But one pale season rules the house of death.

Cold falls the imprisoned daylight; fell disease By each lean pallet squats, and pain and sleep Toss gaping on the pillows.

But O thou!

Uprise and take thy pipe. Bid music flow, Strains by good thoughts attended, like the spring The swallows follow over land and sea.

Pain sleeps at once; at once, with open eyes, Dozing despair awakes. The shepherd sees His flock come bleating home; the seaman hears Once more the cordage rattle. Airs of home!

Youth, love and roses blossom; the gaunt ward Dislimns and disappears, and, opening out, Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond Of mountains.

Small the pipe; but oh! do thou, Peak-faced and suffering piper, blow therein The dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick, These dying, sound the triumph over death.

Behold! each greatly breathes; each tastes a joy Unknown before, in dying; for each knows A hero dies with him-though unfulfilled, Yet conquering truly-and not dies in vain

So is pain cheered, death comforted; the house Of sorrow smiles to listen. Once again- O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard And the deliverer, touch the stops again!

XVII-HENRY JAMES

WHO comes to-night? We ope the doors in vain.

Who comes? My bursting walls, can you contain The presences that now together throng Your narrow entry, as with flowers and song, As with the air of life, the breath of talk?

Lo, how these fair immaculate women walk Behind their jocund maker; and we see Slighted _De Mauves_, and that far different she, _Gressie_, the trivial sphynx; and to our feast _Daisy_ and _Barb_ and _Chancellor_ (she not least!) With all their silken, all their airy kin, Do like unbidden angels enter in.

But he, attended by these shining names, Comes (best of all) himself-our welcome James.

XVIII-THE MIRROR SPEAKS

WHERE the bells peal far at sea Cunning fingers fashioned me.

There on palace walls I hung While that Consuelo sung; But I heard, though I listened well, Never a note, never a trill, Never a beat of the chiming bell.

There I hung and looked, and there In my gray face, faces fair Shone from under shining hair.

Well I saw the poising head, But the lips moved and nothing said; And when lights were in the hall, Silent moved the dancers all.

So awhile I glowed, and then Fell on dusty days and men; Long I slumbered packed in straw, Long I none but dealers saw; Till before my silent eye One that sees came pa.s.sing by.

Now with an outlandish grace, To the sparkling fire I face In the blue room at Skerryvore; Where I wait until the door Open, and the Prince of Men, Henry James, shall come again.