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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.
Page – 9 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
Page – 10 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.
Page – 11 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
Page – 12 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,
Page – 13 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,
Page – 14 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, 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!
Page – 15 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.
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.
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.
Page – 16 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.
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,
Page – 17 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.
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
Page – 18 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
Page – 19 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?
Page – 20 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,
Page – 21 Souls regal to the mould divine most near, And reign, or rise on throne-intending wings, Making thee father to a line of kings.
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
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
(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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