The Garden of Eros
-
- It is full summer now, the heart of June,
- Not yet the sun-burnt reapers are a-stir
- Upon the upland meadow where too soon
- Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,
- Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
- And see his treasure scattered by the wild and
- spendthrift breeze.
-
- Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,
- That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
- To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
- The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,
- And like a strayed and wandering reveller
- Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s
- messenger
-
- The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,
- One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
- Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
- Of their own loveliness some violets lie
- That will not look the gold sun in the face
- For fear of too much splendour,- ah! methinks
- it is a place
-
- Which should be trodden by Persephone
- When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!
- Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!
- The hidden secret of eternal bliss
- Known to the Grecian here a man might find,
- Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep
- be kind.
-
- There are the flowers which mourning Herakles
- Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,
- Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze
- Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,
- That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,
- And lilac lady’s-smock,- but let them bloom alone
- and leave
-
- Yon spired holly-hock red-crocketed
- To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,
- Its little bell-ringer, go seek instead
- Some other pleasaunce; the anemone
- That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl
- Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies
- unfurl
-
- Their painted wings beside it,- bid it pine
- In pale virginity; the winter snow
- Will suit it better than those lips of thine
- Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go
- And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,
- Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.
-
- The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus
- So dear to maidens, creamery meadow-sweet
- Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous
- As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet
- Of Huntress Dian would be loath to mar
- For any dappled fawn,- pluck these, and those fond
- flowers which are
-
- Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon
- Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,
- That morning star which does not dread the sun,
- And budding marjoram which but to kiss
- Would sweeten Cytheraea’s lips and make
- Adonis jealous,- these for thy head,- and for thy
- girdle take
-
- Yon curving spray of purple clematis
- Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,
- And fox-gloves with their nodding chalices,
- But that one narciss which the startled Spring
- Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard
- In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of
- summer’s bird,
-
- Ah! leave it for a subtle memory
- Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,
- When April laughed between her tears to see
- The early primrose with shy footsteps run
- From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,
- Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright
- with shimmering gold.
-
- Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet
- As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!
- And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet
- Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,
- For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride
- And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk
- on daisies pied.
-
- And I will cut a reed by yonder spring
- And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan
- Wonder what young intruder dares to sing
- In these still haunts, where never foot of man
- Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy
- The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.
-
- And I will tell you why the jacinth wears
- Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,
- And why the hapless nightingale forbears
- To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone
- When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,
- And why the laurel trembles when she sees the
- lightening east.
-
- And I will sing how sad Proserpina
- Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,
- And lure the silver-breasted Helena
- Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,
- So shalt thou see that awful loveliness
- For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in
- war’s abyss!
-
- And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale
- How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,
- And hidden in a gray and misty veil
- Hies to the cliffs of Latmos, once the Sun
- Leaps from his ocean bed, in fruitless chase
- Of those pale flying feet which fade away in
- his embrace.
-
- And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,
- We may behold Her face who long ago
- Dwelt among men by the Aegean sea,
- And whose sad house with pillaged portico
- And friezeless wall and columns toppled down
- Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and
- violet-cinctured town.
-
- Spirit of Beauty! tarry still a-while,
- They are not dead, thine ancient votaries,
- Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile
- Is better than a thousand victories,
- Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo
- Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still,
- there are a few,
-
- Who for thy sake would give their manlihood
- And consecrate their being, I at least
- Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,
- And in thy temples found a goodlier feast
- Than this starved age can give me, spite of all
- Its new-found creeds so skeptical and so dogmatical.
-
- Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,
- The woods of white Colonos are not here,
- On our bleak hills the olive never blows,
- No simple priest conducts his lowing steer
- Up the steep marble way, nor through the town
- Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered
- gown.
-
- Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,
- Whose very name should be a memory
- To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest
- Beneath the Roman walls, and melody
- Still mourns her sweetest lyre, none can play
- The lute of Adonais, with his lips Song passed away.
-
- Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left
- One silver voice to sing his threnody,
- But ah! too soon of it we were bereft
- When on that riven night and stormy sea
- Panthea claimed her singer as her own,
- And slew the mouth that praised her; since which
- time we walk alone,
-
- Save for that fiery heart, that morning star
- Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye
- Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war
- The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy
- Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring
- The great Republic! him at least thy love hath
- taught to sing,
-
- And he hath been thee at Thessaly,
- And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot
- In passionless and fierce virginity
- Hunting the tusked boar, his honeyed lute
- Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,
- And Venus laughs to the one knee will bow before
- her still.
-
- And he hath kissed the one of Proserpine,
- And sung the Galilaean’s requiem,
- That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine
- He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him
- Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,
- And the Sign grows gray and dim before its conqueror
-
- Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,
- It is not quenched the torch of poesy,
- The star that shook above the Eastern hill
- Holds unassailed its argent armory
- From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight-
- O tarry with us still! for through the long and
- common night,
-
- Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,
- Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,
- With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
- The weary soul of man in troublous need,
- And from the far and flowerless fields of ice
- Has brought fair flowers meet to make an earthly
- paradise.
-
- We know them all, Gudrun the strong man’s bride,
- Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,
- How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
- And what enchantment held the king in thrall
- When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers
- That war against all passion, ah! how oft through
- summer hours,
-
- Long listless summer hours when the noon
- Being enamored of a damask rose
- Forgets to journey westward, till the moon
- The pale usurper of its tribute grows
- From a thin sickle to a silver shield
- And chides its loitering car- how oft, in
- some cool grassy field
-
- Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight
- At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come
- Almost before the blackbird finds a mate
- And overstay the swallow, and the hum
- Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,
- Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,
-
- And through their unreal woes and mimic pain
- Wept for myself, and so was purified,
- And in their simple mirth grew glad again;
- For as I sailed upon that pictured tide
- The strength and splendour of the storm was mine
- Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine.
-
- The little laugh of water falling down
- Is not so musical, the clammy gold
- Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town
- Has less of sweetness in it, and the old
- Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady
- Touched by his lips break forth again to
- fresher harmony.
-
- Spirit of Beauty tarry yet a-while!
- Although the cheating merchants of the mart
- With iron roads profane our lovely isle,
- And break on whirring wheels the limbs of Art,
- Ay! though the crowded factories beget
- The blind-worm Ignorance that slays the soul,
- O tarry yet!
-
- For One at least there is,- He bears his name
- From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,-
- Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
- To light thine altar; He too loves thee well
- Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,
- And the white feet of angels coming down the
- golden stair,
-
- Loves thee so well, that all the world for him
- A gorgeous-colored vestiture must wear,
- And Sorrow take a purple diadem,
- Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair
- Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be
- Even in anguish beautiful;- such is the empery
-
- Which painters hold, and such the heritage
- This gentle, solemn Spirit doth possess,
- Being a better mirror of his age
- In all his pity, love, and weariness,
- Than those who can but copy common things,
- And leave the soul unpainted with its mighty
- questionings.
-
- But they are few, and all romance has flown,
- And men can prophesy about the sun,
- And lecture on his arrows- how, alone,
- Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,
- How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
- And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad shows
- her head.
-
- Methinks these new actaeons boast too soon
- That they have spied on beauty; what if we
- Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon
- Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,
- Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope
- Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through
- a telescope!
-
- What profit if this scientific age
- Burst through our gates with all its retinue
- Of modern miracles! Can it assuage
- One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do
- To make one life more beautiful, one day
- More god-like in its period? but now the Age of Clay
-
- Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
- Hath borne again a noisy progeny
- Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth
- Hurls them against the august hierarchy
- Which sat upon Olympus, to the Dust
- They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter
- they must
-
- Repair for judgment, let them, if they can,
- From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,
- Create the new ideal rule for man!
- Methinks that was not my inheritance;
- For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul
- Passes from higher heights of life to a more
- supreme goal.
-
- Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away
- Her visage from the God, and Hecate’s boat
- Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day
- Blew all its torches out: I did not note
- The waning hours, to young Endymions
- Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his
- rosary of suns!-
-
- Mark how the yellow iris wearily
- Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed
- By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,
- Who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white wrist,
- Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,
- Which ’gins to flush with crimson shame, and die
- beneath the light.
-
- Come let us go, against the pallid shield
- Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,
- The corn-crake nested in the unmown field
- Answers its mate, across the misty stream
- On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,
- And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day
- is nigh,
-
- Scatters the pearled dew from off the grass,
- In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,
- Who soon in gilded panoply will pass
- Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion
- Hung in the burning east, see, the red rim
- O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God!
- for love of him
-
- Already the shrill lark is out of sight,
- Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,-
- Ah! there is something more in that bird’s flight
- Than could be tested in a crucible!-
- But the air freshens, let us go,- why soon
- The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this
- night of June!
