With his faith in the Great Mother's love:
O the joy of the
breath she sustains,
And the lyre of the light above,
And the first rapt
vision of Good,
And the fresh young sense of Sweet:
That song the youth ever pursued
In the track of her
footing fleet.
For men to be profited much
By her day upon earth did he sing:
Of her voice, and her steps, and her touch
On the blossoms of tender Spring,
Immortal: and how in her soul
She is with them, and tearless abides,
Folding grain of a love for one goal
In
patience, past flowing of tides.
And if unto him she was tears,
He wept not: he wasted within:
Seeming sane in the song, to his peers,
Only crazed where the cravings begin.
Our Lady of Gifts prized he less
Than her issue in darkness: the dim
Lost Skiegencia's caress
Of our earth made it richest for him.
And for that was a curse on him raised,
And he withered rathe, dry to his prime,
Though the
bounteous Giver be praised
Through the island with rites of old time
Exceedingly
fervent, and reaped
Veneration for teachings devout,
Pious hymns when the corn-sheaves are heaped
And the wine-presses ruddily spout,
And the olive and apple are juice
At a touch light as hers lost below.
Whatsoever to men is of use
Sprang his
worship of them who bestow,
In a
measure of songs unexcelled:
But that soul
loving earth and the sun
From her home of the shadows he held
For his
beacon where beam there is none:
And to join her, or have her brought back,
In his
frenzy the
singer would call,
Till he followed where never was track,
On the path trod of all.
THE LARK ASCENDING
He rises and begins to round,
He drops the silver chain of sound,
Of many links without a break,
In chirrup,
whistle, slur and shake,
All intervolved and spreading wide,
Like water-dimples down a tide
Where
rippleripple overcurls
And eddy into eddy whirls;
A press of
hurried notes that run
So fleet they
scarce are more than one,
Yet changeingly the trills repeat
And
linger ringing while they fleet,
Sweet to the quick o' the ear, and dear
To her beyond the handmaid ear,
Who sits beside our inner springs,
Too often dry for this he brings,
Which seems the very jet of earth
At sight of sun, her music's mirth,
As up he wings the
spiral stair,
A song of light, and pierces air
With
fountainardour,
fountain play,
To reach the shining tops of day,
And drink in everything discerned
An
ecstasy to music turned,
Impelled by what his happy bill
Disperses; drinking, showering still,
Unthinking save that he may give
His voice the
outlet, there to live
Renewed in endless notes of glee,
So thirsty of his voice is he,
For all to hear and all to know
That he is joy, awake, aglow;
The
tumult of the heart to hear
Through pureness filtered crystal-clear,
And know the pleasure sprinkled bright
By simple singing of delight;
Shrill, irreflective, unrestrained,
Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustained
Without a break, without a fall,
Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical,
Perennial, quavering up the chord
Like
myriad dews of sunny sward
That trembling into fulness shine,
And
sparkle dropping argentine;
Such wooing as the ear receives
From zephyr caught in choric leaves
Of aspens when their chattering net
Is flushed to white with shivers wet;
And such the water-spirit's chime
On mountain heights in morning's prime,
Too
freshly sweet to seem excess,
Too
animate to need a stress;
But wider over many heads
The
starry voice ascending spreads,
Awakening, as it waxes thin,
The best in us to him akin;
And every face to watch him raised,
Puts on the light of children praised;
So rich our human pleasure ripes
When
sweetness on sincereness pipes,
Though
nought be promised from the seas,
But only a soft-ruffling breeze
Sweep glittering on a still content,
Serenity in ravishment
For singing till his heaven fills,
'Tis love of earth that he instils,
And ever winging up and up,
Our
valley is his golden cup,
And he the wine which overflows
To lift us with him as he goes:
The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine,
He is, the hills, the human line,
The meadows green, the fallows brown,
The dreams of labour in the town;
He sings the sap, the quickened veins;
The
wedding song of sun and rains
He is, the dance of children, thanks
Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks,
And eye of violets while they
breathe;
All these the circling song will wreathe,
And you shall hear the herb and tree,
The better heart of men shall see,
Shall feel celestially, as long
As you crave nothing save the song.
Was never voice of ours could say
Our inmost in the sweetest way,
Like yonder voice aloft, and link
All hearers in the song they drink.
Our
wisdom speaks from failing blood,
Our
passion is too full in flood,
We want the key of his wild note
Of
truthful in a tuneful throat;
The song seraphically free
Of taint of personality,
So pure that it salutes the suns
The voice of one for millions,
In whom the millions rejoice
For giving their one spirit voice.
Yet men have we, whom we revere,
Now names, and men still housing here,
Whose lives, by many a battle-dint
Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint,
Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet
For song our highest heaven to greet:
Whom
heavenly singing gives us new,
Enspheres them
brilliant in our blue,
From firmest base to
farthest leap,
Because their love of Earth is deep,
And they are warriors in accord
With life to serve, and, pass reward,
So
touching purest and so heard
In the brain's reflex of yon bird:
Wherefore their soul in me, or mine,
Through self-forgetfulness divine,
In them, that song aloft maintains,
To fill the sky and
thrill the plains
With showerings drawn from human stores,
As he to silence nearer soars,
Extends the world at wings and dome,
More
spacious making more our home,
Till lost on his
aerial rings
In light, and then the fancy sings.
PHOEBUS WITH ADMETUS
I
When by Zeus relenting the
mandate was revoked,
Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God,
Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked,
Who: and what a track showed the upturned sod!
Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severe
Bent a burning
eyebrow to brown evetide,
How the
rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere,
Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide.
God! of whom music
And song and blood are pure,
The day is never darkened
That had thee here obscure.
II
Chirping none, the
scarlet cicadas crouched in ranks:
Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk grey:
Scarce the stony
lizard sucked hollows in his flanks:
Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay.
Sudden bowed the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard,
Lengthened ran the grasses, the sky grew slate:
Then amid a swift
flight of
winged seed white as curd,
Clear of limb a Youth smote the master's gate.
God! of whom music
And song and blood are pure,
The day is never darkened
That had thee here obscure.
III
Water, first of
singers, o'er rocky mount and mead,
First of
earthlysingers, the sun-loved rill,
Sang of him, and flooded the
ripples on the reed,
Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill.
Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool,
Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook,
Chuckled, with a
whimper, and made a mirror-pool