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Poems. Volume 1
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TO A NIGHTINGALE
O nightingale! how hast thou learnt The note of the nested dove?While under thy bower the fern hangs burnt And no cloud hovers above!Rich July has many a skyWith splendour dim, that thou mightst hymn,And make rejoice with thy wondrous voice, And the thrill of thy wild pervading tone!But instead of to woo, thou hast learnt to coo:Thy song is mute at the mellowing fruit,And the dirge of the flowers is sung by the hours In silence and twilight alone.O nightingale! ’tis this, ’tis this That makes thee mock the dove!That thou hast past thy marriage bliss, To know a parent’s love.The waves of fern may fade and burn,The grasses may fall, the flowers and all,And the pine-smells o’er the oak dells Float on their drowsy and odorous wings,But thou wilt do nothing but coo,Brimming the nest with thy brooding breast,’Midst that young throng of future song, Round whom the Future sings!INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY
Now ’tis Spring on wood and wold,Early Spring that shivers with cold,But gladdens, and gathers, day by day,A lovelier hue, a warmer ray,A sweeter song, a dearer ditty;Ouzel and throstle, new-mated and gay,Singing their bridals on every spray—Oh, hear them, deep in the songless City!Cast off the yoke of toil and smoke,As Spring is casting winter’s grey,As serpents cast their skins away:And come, for the Country awaits thee with pityAnd longs to bathe thee in her delight,And take a new joy in thy kindling sight;And I no less, by day and night,Long for thy coming, and watch for, and wait thee,And wonder what duties can thus berate thee.Dry-fruited firs are dropping their cones,And vista’d avenues of pinesTake richer green, give fresher tones,As morn after morn the glad sun shines.Primrose tufts peep over the brooks,Fair faces amid moist decay!The rivulets run with the dead leaves at play,The leafless elms are alive with the rooks.Over the meadows the cowslips are springing,The marshes are thick with king-cup gold,Clear is the cry of the lambs in the fold,The skylark is singing, and singing, and singing.Soon comes the cuckoo when April is fair,And her blue eye the brighter the more it may weep:The frog and the butterfly wake from their sleep,Each to its element, water and air.Mist hangs still on every hill,And curls up the valleys at eve; but noonIs fullest of Spring; and at midnight the moonGives her westering throne to Orion’s bright zone,As he slopes o’er the darkened world’s repose;And a lustre in eastern Sirius glows.Come, in the season of opening buds;Come, and molest not the otter that whistlesUnlit by the moon, ’mid the wet winter bristlesOf willow, half-drowned in the fattening floods.Let him catch his cold fish without fear of a gun,And the stars shall shield him, and thou wilt shun!And every little bird under the sunShall know that the bounty of Spring doth dwellIn the winds that blow, in the waters that run,And in the breast of man as well.THE SWEET O’ THE YEAR
Now the frog, all lean and weak, Yawning from his famished sleep,Water in the ditch doth seek, Fast as he can stretch and leap: Marshy king-cups burning near Tell him ’tis the sweet o’ the year.Now the ant works up his mound In the mouldered piny soil,And above the busy ground Takes the joy of earnest toil: Dropping pine-cones, dry and sere, Warn him ’tis the sweet o’ the year.Now the chrysalis on the wall Cracks, and out the creature springs,Raptures in his body small, Wonders on his dusty wings: Bells and cups, all shining clear, Show him ’tis the sweet o’ the year.Now the brown bee, wild and wise, Hums abroad, and roves and roams,Storing in his wealthy thighs Treasure for the golden combs: Dewy buds and blossoms dear Whisper ’tis the sweet o’ the year.Now the merry maids so fair Weave the wreaths and choose the queen,Blooming in the open air, Like fresh flowers upon the green; Spring, in every thought sincere, Thrills them with the sweet o’ the year.Now the lads, all quick and gay, Whistle to the browsing herds,Or in the twilight pastures grey Learn the use of whispered words: First a blush, and then a tear, And then a smile, i’ the sweet o’ the year.Now the May-fly and the fish Play again from noon to night;Every breeze begets a wish, Every motion means delight: Heaven high over heath and mere Crowns with blue the sweet o’ the year.Now all Nature is alive, Bird and beetle, man and mole;Bee-like goes the human hive, Lark-like sings the soaring soul: Hearty faith and honest cheer Welcome in the sweet o’ the year.AUTUMN EVEN-SONG
The long cloud edged with streaming grey Soars from the West; The red leaf mounts with it away, Showing the nest A blot among the branches bare:There is a cry of outcasts in the air. Swift little breezes, darting chill, Pant down the lake; A crow flies from the yellow hill, And in its wake A baffled line of labouring rooks:Steel-surfaced to the light the river looks. Pale on the panes of the old hall Gleams the lone space Between the sunset and the squall; And on its face Mournfully glimmers to the last:Great oaks grow mighty minstrels in the blast. Pale the rain-rutted roadways shine In the green light Behind the cedar and the pine: Come, thundering night! Blacken broad earth with hoards of storm:For me yon valley-cottage beckons warm.THE SONG OF COURTESY
IWhen Sir Gawain was led to his bridal-bed,By Arthur’s knights in scorn God-sped:—How think you he felt? O the bride withinWas yellow and dry as a snake’s old skin; Loathly as sin! Scarcely faceable, Quite unembraceable;With a hog’s bristle on a hag’s chin!—Gentle Gawain felt as should we,Little of Love’s soft fire knew he:But he was the Knight of Courtesy.IIWhen that evil lady he lay besideBade him turn to greet his bride,What think you he did? O, to spare her pain,And let not his loathing her loathliness vain Mirror too plain, Sadly, sighingly, Almost dyingly,Turned he and kissed her once and again.Like Sir Gawain, gentles, should we?Silent, all! But for pattern agreeThere’s none like the Knight of Courtesy.IIISir Gawain sprang up amid laces and curls:Kisses are not wasted pearls:—What clung in his arms? O, a maiden flower,Burning with blushes the sweet bride-bower, Beauty her dower! Breathing perfumingly; Shall I live bloomingly,Said she, by day, or the bridal hour?Thereat he clasped her, and whispered he,Thine, rare bride, the choice shall be.Said she, Twice blest is Courtesy!IVOf gentle Sir Gawain they had no sport,When it was morning in Arthur’s court;What think you they cried? Now, life and eyes!This bride is the very Saint’s dream of a prize, Fresh from the skies! See ye not, Courtesy Is the true Alchemy,Turning to gold all it touches and tries?Like the true knight, so may weMake the basest that there beBeautiful by Courtesy!THE THREE MAIDENS
There were three maidens met on the highway; The sun was down, the night was late:And two sang loud with the birds of May, O the nightingale is merry with its mate.Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still? The land is dark, the night is late:O, but the heart in my side is ill, And the nightingale will languish for its mate.Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store; The moon mounts up, the night is late:O, I shall look on man no more, And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing; The moon mounts high, the night is late:O my dear lover can hear no thing, And the nightingale sings only to its mate.They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure; The moon is pale, the night is late:His grave is shallow on the moor; O the nightingale is dying for its mate.His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair; The moon is chill, the night is late:But I will lie beside him there: O the nightingale is dying for its mate.OVER THE HILLS
The old hound wags his shaggy tail, And I know what he would say:It’s over the hills we’ll bound, old hound, Over the hills, and away.There’s nought for us here save to count the clock, And hang the head all day:But over the hills we’ll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.Here among men we’re like the deer That yonder is our prey:So, over the hills we’ll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.The hypocrite is master here, But he’s the cock of clay:So, over the hills we’ll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.The women, they shall sigh and smile, And madden whom they may:It’s over the hills we’ll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.Let silly lads in couples run To pleasure, a wicked fay:’Tis ours on the heather to bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.The torrent glints under the rowan red, And shakes the bracken spray:What joy on the heather to bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.The sun bursts broad, and the heathery bed Is purple, and orange, and gray:Away, and away, we’ll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.JUGGLING JERRY
IPitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes: By the old hedge-side we’ll halt a stage.It’s nigh my last above the daisies: My next leaf ’ll be man’s blank page.Yes, my old girl! and it’s no use crying: Juggler, constable, king, must bow.One that outjuggles all’s been spying Long to have me, and he has me now.IIWe’ve travelled times to this old common: Often we’ve hung our pots in the gorse.We’ve had a stirring life, old woman! You, and I, and the old grey horse.Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, Found us coming to their call:Now they’ll miss us at our stations: There’s a Juggler outjuggles all!IIIUp goes the lark, as if all were jolly! Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.Easy to think that grieving’s folly, When the hand’s firm as driven stakes!Ay, when we’re strong, and braced, and manful, Life’s a sweet fiddle: but we’re a batchBorn to become the Great Juggler’s han’ful: Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.IVHere’s where the lads of the village cricket: I was a lad not wide from here:Couldn’t I whip off the bail from the wicket? Like an old world those days appear!Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale-house—I know them! They are old friends of my halts, and seem,Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: Juggling don’t hinder the heart’s esteem.VJuggling’s no sin, for we must have victual: Nature allows us to bait for the fool.Holding one’s own makes us juggle no little; But, to increase it, hard juggling’s the rule.You that are sneering at my profession, Haven’t you juggled a vast amount?There’s the Prime Minister, in one Session, Juggles more games than my sins ’ll count.VII’ve murdered insects with mock thunder: Conscience, for that, in men don’t quail.I’ve made bread from the bump of wonder: That’s my business, and there’s my tale.Fashion and rank all praised the professor: Ay! and I’ve had my smile from the Queen:Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! Ain’t this a sermon on that scene?VIII’ve studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and, I reckon, rather true.Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy: Most, a dash between the two.But it’s a woman, old girl, that makes me Think more kindly of the race:And it’s a woman, old girl, that shakes me When the Great Juggler I must face.VIIIWe two were married, due and legal: Honest we’ve lived since we’ve been one.Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: You danced bright as a bit o’ the sun.Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry! All night we kiss’d, we juggled all day.Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! Now from his old girl he’s juggled away.IXIt’s past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me:I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree!Parson and Doctor!—don’t they love rarely, Fighting the devil in other men’s fields!Stand up yourself and match him fairly: Then see how the rascal yields!XI, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting Finery while his poor helpmate grubs:Coin I’ve stored, and you won’t be wanting: You shan’t beg from the troughs and tubs.Nobly you’ve stuck to me, though in his kitchen Many a Marquis would hail you Cook!Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, But our old Jerry you never forsook.XIHand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it; Let’s have comfort and be at peace.Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet. Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease.May be—for none see in that black hollow— It’s just a place where we’re held in pawn,And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow, It’s just the sword-trick—I ain’t quite gone!XIIYonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, Gold-like and warm: it’s the prime of May.Better than mortar, brick and putty, Is God’s house on a blowing day.Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it: All the old heath-smells! Ain’t it strange?There’s the world laughing, as if to conceal it, But He’s by us, juggling the change.XIIII mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, Once—it’s long gone—when two gulls we beheld,Which, as the moon got up, were flying Down a big wave that sparked and swelled.Crack, went a gun: one fell: the second Wheeled round him twice, and was off for new luck:There in the dark her white wing beckon’d:— Drop me a kiss—I’m the bird dead-struck!THE CROWN OF LOVE
O might I load my arms with thee, Like that young lover of RomanceWho loved and gained so gloriously The fair Princess of France!Because he dared to love so high, He, bearing her dear weight, shall speedTo where the mountain touched on sky: So the proud king decreed.Unhalting he must bear her on, Nor pause a space to gather breath,And on the height she will be won; And she was won in death!Red the far summit flames with morn, While in the plain a glistening CourtSurrounds the king who practised scorn Through such a mask of sport.She leans into his arms; she lets Her lovely shape be clasped: he fares.God speed him whole! The knights make bets: The ladies lift soft prayers.O have you seen the deer at chase? O have you seen the wounded kite?So boundingly he runs the race, So wavering grows his flight.—My lover! linger here, and slake Thy thirst, or me thou wilt not win.—See’st thou the tumbled heavens? they break! They beckon us up and in.—Ah, hero-love! unloose thy hold: O drop me like a curséd thing.—See’st thou the crowded swards of gold? They wave to us Rose and Ring.—O death-white mouth! O cast me down! Thou diest? Then with thee I die.—See’st thou the angels with their Crown? We twain have reached the sky.THE HEAD OF BRAN THE BLEST
I
When the Head of Bran Was firm on British shoulders,God made a man! Cried all beholders.Steel could not resist The weight his arm would rattle;He, with naked fist, Has brain’d a knight in battle.He marched on the foe, And never counted numbers;Foreign widows know The hosts he sent to slumbers.As a street you scan, That’s towered by the steeple,So the Head of Bran Rose o’er his people.II
‘Death’s my neighbour,’ Quoth Bran the Blest;‘Christian labour Brings Christian rest.From the trunk sever The Head of Bran,That which never Has bent to man!‘That which never To men has bowedShall live ever To shame the shroud:Shall live ever To face the foe;Sever it, sever, And with one blow.‘Be it written, That all I wroughtWas for Britain, In deed and thought:Be it written, That while I die,Glory to Britain! Is my last cry.‘Glory to Britain! Death echoes me round.Glory to Britain! The world shall resound.Glory to Britain! In ruin and fall,Glory to Britain! Is heard over all.’III
Burn, Sun, down the sea!Bran lies low with thee.Burst, Morn, from the main!Bran so shall rise again.Blow, Wind, from the field!Bran’s Head is the Briton’s shield.Beam, Star, in the West!Bright burns the Head of Bran the Blest.IV
Crimson-footed, like the stork, From great ruts of slaughter,Warriors of the Golden Torque Cross the lifting water.Princes seven, enchaining hands, Bear the live head homeward.Lo! it speaks, and still commands: Gazing out far foamward.Fiery words of lightning sense Down the hollows thunder;Forest hostels know not whence Comes the speech, and wonder.City-Castles, on the steep, Where the faithful SevenHouse at midnight, hear, in sleep, Laughter under heaven.Lilies, swimming on the mere, In the castle shadow,Under draw their heads, and Fear Walks the misty meadow.Tremble not! it is not Death Pledging dark espousal:’Tis the Head of endless breath, Challenging carousal!Brim the horn! a health is drunk, Now, that shall keep going:Life is but the pebble sunk; Deeds, the circle growing!Fill, and pledge the Head of Bran! While his lead they follow,Long shall heads in Britain plan Speech Death cannot swallow!THE MEETING
The old coach-road through a common of furze, With knolls of pine, ran white;Berries of autumn, with thistles, and burrs, And spider-threads, droop’d in the light.The light in a thin blue veil peered sick; The sheep grazed close and still;The smoke of a farm by a yellow rick Curled lazily under a hill.No fly shook the round of the silver net; No insect the swift bird chased;Only two travellers moved and met Across that hazy waste.One was a girl with a babe that throve, Her ruin and her bliss;One was a youth with a lawless love, Who clasped it the more for this.The girl for her babe hummed prayerful speech; The youth for his love did pray;Each cast a wistful look on each, And either went their way.THE BEGGAR’S SOLILOQUY
INow, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer, To lie all alone on a ragged heath,Where your nose isn’t sniffing for bones or beer, But a peat-fire smells like a garden beneath.The cottagers bustle about the door, And the girl at the window ties her strings.She’s a dish for a man who’s a mind to be poor; Lord! women are such expensive things.IIWe don’t marry beggars, says she: why, no: It seems that to make ’em is what you do;And as I can cook, and scour, and sew, I needn’t pay half my victuals for you.A man for himself should be able to scratch, But tickling’s a luxury:—love, indeed!Love burns as long as the lucifer match, Wedlock’s the candle! Now, that’s my creed.IIIThe church-bells sound water-like over the wheat; And up the long path troop pair after pair.The man’s well-brushed, and the woman looks neat: It’s man and woman everywhere!Unless, like me, you lie here flat, With a donkey for friend, you must have a wife:She pulls out your hair, but she brushes your hat. Appearances make the best half of life.IVYou nice little madam! you know you’re nice. I remember hearing a parson sayYou’re a plateful of vanity pepper’d with vice; You chap at the gate thinks t’ other way.On his waistcoat you read both his head and his heart: There’s a whole week’s wages there figured in gold!Yes! when you turn round you may well give a start: It’s fun to a fellow who’s getting old.VNow, that’s a good craft, weaving waistcoats and flowers, And selling of ribbons, and scenting of lard:It gives you a house to get in from the showers, And food when your appetite jockeys you hard.You live a respectable man; but I ask If it’s worth the trouble? You use your tools,And spend your time, and what’s your task? Why, to make a slide for a couple of fools.VIYou can’t match the colour o’ these heath mounds, Nor better that peat-fire’s agreeable smell.I’m clothed-like with natural sights and sounds; To myself I’m in tune: I hope you’re as well.You jolly old cot! though you don’t own coal: It’s a generous pot that’s boiled with peat.Let the Lord Mayor o’ London roast oxen whole: His smoke, at least, don’t smell so sweet.VIII’m not a low Radical, hating the laws, Who’d the aristocracy rebuke.I talk o’ the Lord Mayor o’ London because I once was on intimate terms with his cook.I served him a turn, and got pensioned on scraps, And, Lord, Sir! didn’t I envy his place,Till Death knock’d him down with the softest of taps, And I knew what was meant by a tallowy face!VIIIOn the contrary, I’m Conservative quite; There’s beggars in Scripture ’mongst Gentiles and Jews:It’s nonsense, trying to set things right, For if people will give, why, who’ll refuse?That stopping old custom wakes my spleen: The poor and the rich both in giving agree:Your tight-fisted shopman’s the Radical mean: There’s nothing in common ’twixt him and me.IXHe says I’m no use! but I won’t reply. You’re lucky not being of use to him!On week-days he’s playing at Spider and Fly, And on Sundays he sings about Cherubim!Nailing shillings to counters is his chief work: He nods now and then at the name on his door:But judge of us two, at a bow and a smirk, I think I’m his match: and I’m honest—that’s more.XNo use! well, I mayn’t be. You ring a pig’s snout, And then call the animal glutton! Now, he,Mr. Shopman, he’s nought but a pipe and a spout Who won’t let the goods o’ this world pass free.This blazing blue weather all round the brown crop, He can’t enjoy! all but cash he hates.He’s only a snail that crawls under his shop; Though he has got the ear o’ the magistrates.XINow, giving and taking’s a proper exchange, Like question and answer: you’re both content.But buying and selling seems always strange; You’re hostile, and that’s the thing that’s meant.It’s man against man—you’re almost brutes; There’s here no thanks, and there’s there no pride.If Charity’s Christian, don’t blame my pursuits, I carry a touchstone by which you’re tried.XII—‘Take it,’ says she, ‘it’s all I’ve got’: I remember a girl in London streets:She stood by a coffee-stall, nice and hot, My belly was like a lamb that bleats.Says I to myself, as her shilling I seized, You haven’t a character here, my dear!But for making a rascal like me so pleased, I’ll give you one, in a better sphere!XIIIAnd that’s where it is—she made me feel I was a rascal: but people who scorn,And tell a poor patch-breech he isn’t genteel, Why, they make him kick up—and he treads on a corn.It isn’t liking, it’s curst ill-luck, Drives half of us into the begging-trade:If for taking to water you praise a duck, For taking to beer why a man upbraid?XIVThe sermon’s over: they’re out of the porch, And it’s time for me to move a leg;But in general people who come from church, And have called themselves sinners, hate chaps to beg.I’ll wager they’ll all of ’em dine to-day! I was easy half a minute ago.If that isn’t pig that’s baking away, May I perish!—we’re never contented—heigho!BY THE ROSANNA
TO F. M
Stanzer Thal, Tyrol
The old grey Alp has caught the cloud,And the torrent river sings aloud;The glacier-green Rosanna singsAn organ song of its upper springs.Foaming under the tiers of pine,I see it dash down the dark ravine,And it tumbles the rocks in boisterous play,With an earnest will to find its way.Sharp it throws out an emerald shoulder, And, thundering ever of the mountain,Slaps in sport some giant boulder, And tops it in a silver fountain.A chain of foam from end to end,And a solitude so deep, my friend,You may forget that man abidesBeyond the great mute mountain-sides.Yet to me, in this high-walled solitudeOf river and rock and forest rude,The roaring voice through the long white chainIs the voice of the world of bubble and brain.PHANTASY
IWithin a Temple of the Toes, Where twirled the passionate Wili,I saw full many a market rose, And sighed for my village lily.IIWith cynical Adrian then I took flight To that old dead city whose carolBursts out like a reveller’s loud in the night, As he sits astride his barrel.IIIWe two were bound the Alps to scale, Up the rock-reflecting river;Old times blew thro’ me like a gale, And kept my thoughts in a quiver.IVHawking ruin, wood-slope, and vine Reeled silver-laced under my vision,And into me passed, with the green-eyed wine Knocking hard at my head for admission.VI held the village lily cheap, And the dream around her idle:Lo, quietly as I lay to sleep, The bells led me off to a bridal.VIMy bride wore the hood of a Béguine, And mine was the foot to falter;Three cowled monks, rat-eyed, were seen; The Cross was of bones o’er the altar.VIIThe Cross was of bones; the priest that read, A spectacled necromancer:But at the fourth word, the bride I led Changed to an Opera dancer.VIIIA young ballet-beauty, who perked in her place, A darling of pink and spangles;One fair foot level with her face, And the hearts of men at her ankles.IXShe whirled, she twirled, the mock-priest grinned, And quickly his mask unriddled;’Twas Adrian! loud his old laughter dinned; Then he seized a fiddle, and fiddled.XHe fiddled, he glowed with the bottomless fire, Like Sathanas in feature:All through me he fiddled a wolfish desire To dance with that bright creature.XIAnd gathering courage I said to my soul, Throttle the thing that hinders!When the three cowled monks, from black as coal, Waxed hot as furnace-cinders.XIIThey caught her up, twirling: they leapt between-whiles: The fiddler flickered with laughter:Profanely they flew down the awful aisles, Where I went sliding after.XIIIDown the awful aisles, by the fretted walls, Beneath the Gothic arches:—King Skull in the black confessionals Sat rub-a-dub-dubbing his marches.XIVThen the silent cold stone warriors frowned, The pictured saints strode forward:A whirlwind swept them from holy ground; A tempest puffed them nor’ward.XVThey shot through the great cathedral door; Like mallards they traversed ocean:And gazing below, on its boiling floor, I marked a horrid commotion.XVIDown a forest’s long alleys they spun like tops: It seemed that for ages and ages,Thro’ the Book of Life bereft of stops, They waltzed continuous pages.XVIIAnd ages after, scarce awake, And my blood with the fever fretting,I stood alone by a forest-lake, Whose shadows the moon were netting.XVIIILilies, golden and white, by the curls Of their broad flat leaves hung swaying.A wreath of languid twining girls Streamed upward, long locks disarraying.XIXTheir cheeks had the satin frost-glow of the moon; Their eyes the fire of Sirius.They circled, and droned a monotonous tune, Abandoned to love delirious.XXLike lengths of convolvulus torn from the hedge, And trailing the highway over,The dreamy-eyed mistresses circled the sedge, And called for a lover, a lover!XXII sank, I rose through seas of eyes, In odorous swathes delicious:They fanned me with impetuous sighs, They hit me with kisses vicious.XXIIMy ears were spelled, my neck was coiled, And I with their fury was glowing,When the marbly waters bubbled and boiled At a watery noise of crowing.XXIIIThey dragged me low and low to the lake: Their kisses more stormily showered;On the emerald brink, in the white moon’s wake, An earthly damsel cowered.XXIVFresh heart-sobs shook her knitted hands Beneath a tiny suckling,As one by one of the doleful bands Dived like a fairy duckling.XXVAnd now my turn had come—O me! What wisdom was mine that second!I dropped on the adorer’s knee; To that sweet figure I beckoned.XXVISave me! save me! for now I know The powers that Nature gave me,And the value of honest love I know:— My village lily! save me!XXVIICome ’twixt me and the sisterhood, While the passion-born phantoms are fleeing!Oh, he that is true to flesh and blood Is true to his own being!XXVIIIAnd he that is false to flesh and blood Is false to the star within him:And the mad and hungry sisterhood All under the tides shall win him!XXIXMy village lily! save me! save! For strength is with the holy:—Already I shuddered to feel the wave, As I kept sinking slowly:—XXXI felt the cold wave and the under-tug Of the Brides, when—starting and shrinking—Lo, Adrian tilts the water-jug! And Bruges with morn is blinking.XXXIMerrily sparkles sunny prime On gabled peak and arbour:Merrily rattles belfry-chime The song of Sevilla’s Barber.
