They are lost in the hollows!
They stream up again!
What seeks on this mountain
The glorified train?
They bathe on this mountain,
In the spring by their road;
Then on to Olympus,
Their endless abode.
-Whose praise do they mention?
Of what is it told?
What will be for ever;
What was from of old.
First hymn they the Father
Of all things; and then,
The rest of Immortals,
The action of men,
The day in his hotness,
The strife with the palm;
The night in her silence,
The stars in their calm.
93. TO HELEN 1
HELEN, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks 2 of yore
1 Helen Stannard, the mother of a friend, his "one idolatrous and purely ideal love."
2 Apparently the magic barks of the Pheacians, in one of which Odysseus was conveyed to Ithaca. (See Odyssey, Bk. xiii.) The only possible explanation of "Nicean seems to be that the surname Nice (victory) was sometimes given to Athene, the protectress of Odysseus.
That gently o'er a perfumed sea
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
To the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo, in yon brilliant window niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand—
Ah, Psyche! from the regions which
Are Holy Land !
(FROM "ASTROPHEL AND STELLA " 1)
STELLA! the fulness of my thoughts of thee
Cannot be stayed within my panting breast;
But they do swell and struggle forth of me
Till that in words thy figure be expressed.
And yet as soon as they so formèd be
According to my lord Love's own behest,
With sad eyes I their weak proportion see
To portrait that which in this world is best:
So that I cannot choose but write my mind,
And cannot choose but put out what I write ;
1 See p. 73.
While these poor babes their death in birth do find. And now my pen these lines had dashèd quite, But that they stopped his fury from the same, Because their forefront bare sweet Stella's name.
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What! may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's ease!
I read it in thy looks: thy languished grace,
To me that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
Come, Sleep, O Sleep! the certain knot of peace;
The baiting-place of wit; the balm of woe;
The poor man's wealth; the prisoner's release;
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low.
With shield of proof, shield me from out the press
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw.
O make in me those civil wars to cease:
I will good tribute pay if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,
A rosy garland and a weary head;
And if these things, as being there by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.
P. SIDNEY
VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young ?—Ah, woful when !
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands
How lightly then it flashed along :
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like ;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O the joys that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty.
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
Which tells me Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet
'Tis known that thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit—
It cannot be that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled :—
And thou wert aye a masker bold !
What strange disguise hast now put on
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size :
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but Thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are housemates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve
When we are old:
-That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest
That may not rudely be dismist,
Yet hath out-stayed his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.
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