THE DOLE OF THE KING’S DAUGHTER

(BRETON)

Seven stars in the still water,
   And seven in the sky;
Seven sins on the King’s daughter,
   Deep in her soul to lie.

Red roses are at her feet,
   (Roses are red in her red-gold hair)
And O where her bosom and girdle meet
   Red roses are hidden there.

Fair is the knight who lieth slain
   Amid the rush and reed,
See the lean fishes that are fain
   Upon dead men to feed.

Sweet is the page that lieth there,
   (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)
See the black ravens in the air,
   Black, O black as the night are they.

What do they there so stark and dead?
   (There is blood upon her hand)
Why are the lilies flecked with red?
   (There is blood on the river sand.)

There are two that ride from the south and east,
   And two from the north and west,
For the black raven a goodly feast,
   For the King’s daughter rest.

There is one man who loves her true,
   (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)
He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,
   (One grave will do for four.)

No moon in the still heaven,
   In the black water none,
The sins on her soul are seven,
   The sin upon his is one.

AMOR INTELLECTUALIS

Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly
   And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown
   From antique reeds to common folk unknown:
And often launched our bark upon that sea
Which the nine Muses hold in empery,
   And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,
   Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home
Till we had freighted well our argosy.
Of which despoilèd treasures these remain,
   Sordello’s passion, and the honeyed line
Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine
   Driving his pampered jades, and more than these,
The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,
   And grave-browed Milton’s solemn harmonies.

SANTA DECCA

The Gods are dead: no longer do we bring
   To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!
   Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves,
And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,
For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning
   By secret glade and devious haunt is o’er:
   Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;
Great Pan is dead, and Mary’s son is King.

And yet—perchance in this sea-trancèd isle,
   Chewing the bitter fruit of memory,
   Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.
Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well
   For us to fly his anger: nay, but see,
   The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile.

Corfu.

A VISION

Two crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone
   With no green weight of laurels round his head,
   But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,
   And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
   Girt was he in a garment black and red,
And at his feet I marked a broken stone
   Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,
I cried to Beatricé, ‘Who are these?’
And she made answer, knowing well each name,
   ‘Æschylos first, the second Sophokles,
   And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’

IMPRESSION DE VOYAGE

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky
   Burned like a heated opal through the air;
   We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.
From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye
   Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,
   Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.
   The flapping of the sail against the mast,
   The ripple of the water on the side,
The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern,
The only sounds:—when ’gan the West to burn,
   And a red sun upon the seas to ride,
   I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

Katakolo.

THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY

Like burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed
   Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;
   Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,
And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.
And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,
   In the still chamber of yon pyramid
   Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,
Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.

Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb
   Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb
   In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,
Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom
   Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.

Rome.

BY THE ARNO

   The oleander on the wall
   Grows crimson in the dawning light,
   Though the grey shadows of the night
Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

   The dew is bright upon the hill,
   And bright the blossoms overhead,
   But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
The little Attic song is still.

   Only the leaves are gently stirred
   By the soft breathing of the gale,
   And in the almond-scented vale
The lonely nightingale is heard.

   The day will make thee silent soon,
   O nightingale sing on for love!
   While yet upon the shadowy grove
Splinter the arrows of the moon.

   Before across the silent lawn
   In sea-green vest the morning steals,
   And to love’s frightened eyes reveals
The long white fingers of the dawn

   Fast climbing up the eastern sky
   To grasp and slay the shuddering night,
   All careless of my heart’s delight,
Or if the nightingale should die.