Songs to Myrtilla

GLAUCUS

Sweet is the night, sweet and cool

As to parched lips a running pool;

Sweet when the flowers have fallen asleep

And only moonlit rivulets creep

Like glow-worms in the dim and whispering wood,

To commune with the quiet heart and solitude.

When earth is full of whispers, when

No daily voice is heard of men,

But higher audience brings

The footsteps of invisible things,

When o'er the glimmering tree-tops bowed

The night is leaning on a luminous cloud,

And always a melodious breeze

Sings secret in the weird and charmed trees,

Pleasant 'tis then heart-overawed to lie

Alone with that clear moonlight and that listening sky.

AETHON

But day is sweeter; morning bright

Has put the stars out ere the light,

And from their dewy cushions rise

Sweet flowers half-opening their eyes.

O pleasant then to feel as if new-born

The sweet, unripe and virgin air, the air of morn.

And pleasant are her melodies,

Rustle of winds, rustle of trees,

Birds' voices in the eaves,

Birds' voices in the green melodious leaves;

The herdsman's flute among his flocks,

Sweet water hurrying from reluctant rocks,

And all sweet hours and all sweet showers

And all sweet sounds that please the noonday flowers.

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Morning has pleasure, noon has golden peace

And afternoon repose and eve the heart's increase.

All things are subject to sweet pleasure,

But three things keep her richest measure,

The breeze that visits heaven

And knows the planets seven,

The green spring with its flowery truth

Creative and the luminous heart of youth.

To all fair flowers and vernal

The wind makes melody diurnal.

On Ocean all night long

He rests, a voice of song.

The blue sea dances like a girl

With sapphire and with pearl

Crowning her locks. Sunshine and dew

Each morn delicious life renew.

The year is but a masque of flowers,

Of light and song and honied showers.

In the soft springtide comes the bird

Of heaven whose speech is one sweet word,

One word of sweet and magic power to bring

Green branches back and ruddy lights of spring.

Summer has pleasant comrades, happy meetings

Of lily and rose and from the trees divinest greetings.

GLAUCUS

For who in April shall remember

The certain end of drear November?

No flowers then live, no flowers

Make sweet those wretched hours;

From dead or grieving branches spun

Unwilling leaves lapse wearily one by one;

The heart is then in pain

With the unhappy sound of rain.

No secret boughs prolong

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A green retreat of song;

Summer is dead and rich repose

And springtide and the rose,

And woods and all sweet things make moan;

The weeping earth is turned to stone.

The lovers of her former face,

Shapes of beauty, melody, grace,

Where are they? Butterfly and bird

No more are seen, no songs are heard.

They see her beauty spent, her splendours done;

They seek a younger earth, a surer sun.

When youth has quenched its soft and magic light,

Delightful things remain but dead is their delight.

AETHON

Ah! for a little hour put by

Dim Hades and his pageantry.

Forget the future, leave the past,

The little hour thy life shall last.

Learn rather from the violet's days

Soft-blooming in retired ways

Or dewy bell, the maid undrest

With creamy childhood in her breast,

Fierce foxglove and the briony

And sapphire thyme, the work-room of the bee.

Behold in emerald fire

The spotted lizard crawl

Upon the sun-kissed wall

And coil in tangled brake

The green and sliding snake

Under the red-rose-briar.

Nay, hither see

Lured by thy rose of lips the bee

To woo thy petals open, O sweet,

His flowery murmur here repeat,

Forsaking all the joys of thyme.

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Stain not thy perfumed prime

With care for autumn's pale decay,

But live like these thy sunny day.

So when thy tender bloom must fall,

Then shalt thou be as one who tasted all

Life's honey and must now depart

A broken prodigal from pleasure's mart,

A leaf with whom each golden sunbeam sinned,

A dewy leaf and kissed by every wandering wind.

GLAUCUS

How various are thy children, Earth!

Behold the rose her lovely birth,

What fires from the bud proceed,

As if the vernal air did bleed.

Breezes and sunbeams, bees and dews

Her lords and lovers she indues,

And these her crimson pleasures prove;

Her life is but a bath of love;

The wide world perfumes when she sighs

And, burning all the winds, of love she dies.

The lily liveth pure,

Yet has she lovers, friends,

And each her bliss intends;

The bees besides her treasure

Besiege of pollened pleasure,

Nor long her gates endure.

The snowdrop cold

Has vowed the saintly state to hold

And far from green spring's amorous guilds

Her snowy hermitage she builds.

Cowslip attends her vernal duty

And stops the heart with beauty.

The crocus asks no vernal thing,

But all the lovely lights of spring

Are with rich honeysuckle boon

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And praise her through one summer moon.

Thus the sweet children of the earth

Fulfil their natural selves and various birth.

For one is proud and one sweet months approve

Diana's saint, but most are bond-maidens of Love.

Love's feet were on the sea

When he dawned on me.

His wings were purple-grained and slow;

His voice was very sweet and very low;

His rose-lit cheeks, his eyes' pale bloom

Were sorrow's anteroom;

His wings did cause melodious moan;

His mouth was like a rose o'erblown;

The cypress-garland of renown

Did make his shadowy crown.

Fair as the spring he gave

And sadder than a winter's wave

And sweet as sunless asphodel,

My shining lily, Florimel,

My heart's enhaloed moon,

My winter's warmth, my summer's shady boon.

AETHON

Not from the mighty sea

Love visited me.

I found as in a jewelled box

Love, rose-red, sleeping with imprisoned locks;

And I have ever known him wild

And merry as a child,

As roses red, as roses sweet,

The west wind in his feet,

Tulip-girdled, kind and bold,

With heartsease in his curls of gold,

Since in the silver mist

Bright Cymothea's lips I kissed,

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Whose laughter dances like a gleam

Of sunlight on a hidden stream

That through a wooded way

Runs suddenly into the perfect day.

But what were Cymothea, placed

Where like a silver star Myrtilla blooms?

Such light as cressets cast

In long and sun-lit rooms.

Thy presence is to her

As oak to juniper,

Thy beauty as the gorgeous rose

To privet by the lane that blows,

Gold-crowned blooms to mere fresh grass,

Eternal ivy to brief blooms that pass.

GLAUCUS

But Florimel beside thee, sweet,

Pales like a candle in the brilliant noon.

Snowdrops are thy feet,

Thy waist a crescent moon,

And like a silver wand

Thy body slight doth stand

Or like a silver beech aspire.

Thine arms are walls for white caresses,

Thy mouth a tale of crimson kisses,

Thine eyes two amorous treasuries of fire.

To what shall poet liken thee?

Art thou a goddess of the sea

Purple-tressed and laughter-lipped

From thy choric sisters slipped

To wander on the flowery land?

Or art thou siren on the treacherous sand

Summer-voiced to charm the ear

Of the wind-vext mariner?

Ah! but what are these to thee,

Brighter gem than knows the sea,

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Lovelier girl than sees the stream

Naked, Naiad of a dream,

Whiter Dryad than men see

Dancing round the lone oak-tree,

Flower and most enchanting birth

Of ten ages of the earth!

The Graces in thy body move

And in thy lips the ruby hue of Love.

O Coïl, Coïl

O Coïl, honied envoy of the spring,

Cease thy too happy voice, grief's record, cease:

For I recall that day of vernal trees,

The soft asoca's bloom, the laden winds

And green felicity of leaves, the hush,

The sense of Nature living in the woods.

Only the river rippled, only hummed

The languid murmuring bee, far-borne and slow,

Emparadised in odours, only used

The ringdove his divine heart-moving speech;

But sweetest to my pleased and singing heart

Thy voice, O Coïl, in the peepel tree.

O me! for pleasure turned to bitterest tears!

O me! for the swift joy, too great to live,

That only bloomed one hour! O wondrous day,

That crowned the bliss of those delicious years.

The vernal radiance of my lover's lips

Was shut like a red rose upon my mouth,

His voice was richer than the murmuring leaves,

His love around me than the summer air.

Five hours entangled in the coil's cry

Lay my beloved twixt my happy breasts.

O voice of tears! O sweetness uttering death!

O lost ere yet that happy cry was still!

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O tireless voice of spring! Again I lie

In odorous gloom of trees; unseen and near

The wind-lark gurgles in the golden leaves,

The woodworm spins in shrillness on the bough:

Thou by the waters wailing to thy love,

O chocrobacque! have comfort, since to thee

The dawn brings sweetest recompense of tears

And she thou lovest hears thy pain. But I

Am desolate in the heart of fruitful months,

Am widowed in the sight of happy things,

Uttering my moan to the unhoused winds,

O coïl, coïl, to the winds and thee.

Goethe

A perfect face amid barbarian faces,

A perfect voice of sweet and serious rhyme,

Traveller with calm, inimitable paces,

Critic with judgment absolute to all time,

A complete strength when men were maimed and weak,

German obscured the spirit of a Greek.

The Lost Deliverer

Pythian he came; repressed beneath his heel

The hydra of the world with bruised head.

Vainly, since Fate's immeasurable wheel

Could parley with a straw. A weakling sped

The bullet when to custom's usual night

We fell because a woman's faith was light.

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Charles Stewart Parnell

1891

O pale and guiding light, now star unsphered,

Deliverer lately hailed, since by our lords

Most feared, most hated, hated because feared,

Who smot'st them with an edge surpassing swords!

Thou too wert then a child of tragic earth,

Since vainly filled thy luminous doom of birth.

Hic Jacet

Glasnevin Cemetery

Patriots, behold your guerdon. This man found

Erin, his mother, bleeding, chastised, bound,

Naked to imputation, poor, denied,

While alien masters held her house of pride.

And now behold her! Terrible and fair

With the eternal ivy in her hair,

Armed with the clamorous thunder, how she stands

Like Pallas' self, the Gorgon in her hands.

True that her puissance will be easily past,

The vision ended; she herself has cast

Her fate behind her: yet the work not vain

Since that which once has been may be again,

And she this image yet recover, fired

With godlike workings, brain and hands inspired,

So stand, the blush of battle on her cheek,

Voice made armipotent, deeds that loudly speak,

Like some dread Sphinx, half patent to the eye,

Half veiled in formidable secrecy.

And he who raised her from her forlorn life

Loosening the fountains of that mighty strife,

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Where sits he? On what high foreshadowing throne

Guarded by grateful hearts? Beneath this stone

He lies: this guerdon only Ireland gave,

A broken heart and an unhonoured grave.

Lines on Ireland

1896

After six hundred years did Fate intend

Her perfect perseverance thus should end?

So many years she strove, so many years,

Enduring toil, enduring bitter tears,

She waged religious war, with sword and song

Insurgent against Fate and numbers, strong

To inflict as to sustain; her weak estate

Could not conceal the goddess in her gait;

Goddess her mood. Therefore that light was she

In whom races of weaker destiny

Their beauteous image of rebellion saw;

Treason could not unnerve, violence o'erawe —

A mirror to enslaved nations, never

O'ercome, though in the field defeated ever.

O mutability of human merit!

How changed, how fallen from her ancient spirit!

She that was Ireland, Ireland now no more,

In beggar's weeds behold at England's door

Neglected sues or at the best returned

With hollow promise, happy if not spurned

Perforce, she that had yesterday disdained

Less than her mighty purpose to have gained.

Had few short change of seasons puissance then,

O nurse and mother of heroic men,

Thy genius to outwear, thy strength well-placed

And old traditionary courage, waste

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Thy vehement nature? Nay, not time, but thou

These ancient praises strov'st to disavow.

For 'tis not foreign force, nor weight of wars,

Nor treason, nor surprise, nor opposite stars,

Not all these have enslaved nor can, whate'er

Vulgar opinion bruit, nor years impair,

Ruin discourage, nor disease abate

A nation. Men are fathers of their fate;

They dig the prison, they the crown command.

Yet thine own self a little understand,

Unhappy country, and be wise at length.

An outward weakness doing deeds of strength

Amazed the nations, but a power within

Directed, like effective spirit unseen

Behind the mask of trivial forms, a source

And fund of tranquil and collected force.

This was the sense that made thee royal, blessed

With sanction from on high and that impressed

Which could thyself transfigure and infuse

Thine action with such pride as kings do use.

But thou to thine own self disloyal, hast

Renounced the help divine turning thy past

To idle legends and fierce tales of blood,

Mere violent wrath with no proposed good.

Therefore effective wisdom, skill to bend

All human things to one predestined end

Renounce thee. Honest purpose, labour true,

These dwell not with the self-appointed crew

Who, having conquered by death's aid, abuse

The public ear, — for seldom men refuse

Credence, when mediocrity multiplied

Equals itself with genius — fools! whose pride

Absurd the gods permit a little space

To please their souls with laughter, then replace

In the loud limbo of futilities.

How fallen art thou being ruled by these!

Ignoble hearts, courageous to effect

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Their country's ruin; such the heavens reject

For their high agencies and leave exempt

Of force, mere mouths and vessels of contempt.

They of thy famous past and nature real

Uncareful, have denied thy rich ideal

For private gains, the burden would not brook

Of that sustaining genius, when it took

A form of visible power, since it demanded

All meaner passions for its sake disbanded.

As once against the loud Euphratic host

The lax Ionians of the Asian coast

Drew out their numbers, but not long enduring

Rigorous hard-hearted toil to the alluring

Cool shadow of the olives green withdrew;

Freedom's preparators though well they knew

Labour exact, discipline, pains well nerved

In the severe unpitying sun, yet swerved

From their ordeal; Ireland so deceiving

The world's great hope, her temples large relieving

Of the too heavy laurel, rather chose

Misery, civil battle, triumphant foes

Than rational order and divine control.

Therefore her brighter fate and nobler soul

Glasnevin with that hardly-honoured bier

Received. But the immortal mind austere,

By man rejected, of eternal praise

Has won its meed and sits with heavenly bays,

Not variable breath of favour, crowned

On high. And grieves it not, spirit renowned,

Mortal ingratitude though now forgiven,

Grieves it not, even on the hills of heaven,

After so many mighty toils, defeats

So many, cold repulse and vernal heats

Of hope, iron endurance throned apart

In lonely strength within thy godlike heart,

Obloquy faced, health lost, the goal nigh won,

To see at last thy strenuous work undone?

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So falls it ever when a race condemned

To strict and lasting bondage, have contemned

Their great deliverer, self and ease preferring

To labour's crown, by their own vileness erring.

Thus the uncounselled Israelites of old,

Binding their mightiest, for their own ease sold,

Who else had won them glorious liberty

To his Philistian foes, as thine did thee.

Thou likewise, had thy puissant soul endured

Within its ruined house to stay immured,

With parallel disaster and o'erthrow

Hadst daunted and their conjured strength laid low.

But time was adverse. Thus too Heracles

In exile closed by the Olynthian seas,

Not seeing Thebes nor Dirce any more,

His friendless eyelids on an alien shore.

Yet not unbidden of heaven the men renowned

Have laboured, though no fruit apparent crowned

Nor praise contemporary touched with leaf

Of civic favour, who for joy or grief

To throned injustice never bowed the head.

They triumph from the houses of the dead.

Thou too, high spirit, mighty genius, glass

Of patriots, into others' deeds shalt pass

With force and tranquil fortitude thy dower,

An inspiration and a fount of power.

Nor to thy country only nor thy day

Art thou a name and a possession, stay

Of loftiest natures, but where'er and when

In time's full ripeness and the date of men

Alien oppression maddened has the wise,  —

For ever thus preparing Nemesis

In ruling nations unjust power has borne

Insolence, injustice, madness, outrage, scorn,

Its natural children, then, by high disdain

And brave example pushed to meet their pain,

The pupils of thy greatness shall appear,

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Souls regal to the mould divine most near,

And reign, or rise on throne-intending wings,

Making thee father to a line of kings.

On a Satyr and Sleeping Love

Me whom the purple mead that Bromius owns

And girdles rent of amorous girls did please,

Now the inspired and curious hand decrees

That waked quick life in these quiescent stones,

To yield thee water pure. Thou lest the sleep

Yon perilous boy unchain, more softly creep.

PLATO

A Rose of Women

Now lilies blow upon the windy height,

Now flowers the pansy kissed by tender rain,

Narcissus builds his house of self-delight

And Love's own fairest flower blooms again;

Vainly your gems, O meadows, you recall;

One simple girl breathes sweeter than you all.

MELEAGER

Saraswati with the Lotus

(Bankim Chandra Chatterji. Obiit 1894)

Thy tears fall fast, O mother, on its bloom,

O white-armed mother, like honey fall thy tears;

Yet even their sweetness can no more relume

The golden light, the fragrance heaven rears,

The fragrance and the light for ever shed

Upon his lips immortal who is dead.

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