Courage

To His August Highness, Monseigneur The Prince De Conti.[2]

The gods, for that themselves are good,
The like in mortal monarchs would.
The prime of royal rights is grace;
To this e'en sweet revenge gives place.
So thinks your highness, - while your wrath
Its cradle for its coffin hath.
Achilles no such conquest knew -
In this a hero less than you.
That name indeed belongs to none,
Save those who have, beneath the sun,
Their hundred generous actions done.
The golden age produced such powers,
But truly few this age of ours.
The men who now the topmost sit,
Are thank'd for crimes which they omit.
For you, unharm'd by such examples,
A thousand noble deeds are winning temples,
Wherein Apollo, by the altar-fire,
Shall strike your name...

Through the sunshine, and through the rain
    Of these changing days of mist and splendour,
I see the face of a year-old pain
    Looking at me with a smile half tender.

With a smile half tender, and yet all sad,
    Into each hour of the mild September
It comes, and finding my life grown glad
    Looks down in my eyes, and says 'Remember.'

Says 'Remember,' and points behind
    To days of sorrow, and tear-wet lashes;
When joy lay dead and hope was blind,
    And nothing was left but dust and ashes.

Dust and ashes and vain regret,
    Flames fanned out, and the embers falling.
But the sun of the saddest day must set,
    And hope wakes ever with Springtime's calling.

With Springtime's calling the pulses thrill;
    And the heart i...

        Into the golden vessel of great song
        Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast
        Let other lovers lie, in love and rest;
        Not we,--articulate, so, but with the tongue
        Of all the world: the churning blood, the long
        Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed
        Sharply together upon the escaping guest,
        The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.
        Longing alone is singer to the lute;
        Let still on nettles in the open sigh
        The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute
        As any man, and love be far and high,
        That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit
        Found on the ground by every passer-by.

This passion is but an ember
    Of a Sun, of a Fire, long set;
I could not live and remember,
    And so I love and forget.

You say, and the tone is fretful,
    That my mourning days were few,
You call me over forgetful -
    My God, if you only knew!

THE FLESH

'Sweet, thou art pale.'
    'More pale to see,
Christ hung upon the cruel tree
And bore His Father's wrath for me.'

'Sweet, thou art sad.'
    'Beneath a rod
More heavy, Christ for my sake trod
The winepress of the wrath of God.'

'Sweet, thou art weary.'
    'Not so Christ:
Whose mighty love of me sufficed
For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist.'

'Sweet, thou art footsore.'
    'If I bleed,
His feet have bled; yea in my need
His Heart once bled for mine indeed.'

THE WORLD

'Sweet, thou art young.'
    'So He was young
Who for my sake in silence hung
Upon the Cross with Passion wrung.'

'Look, thou art fair.'
    'He was more fair
Than men, Who deigned for me to wear
A vi...

FROM A PROSE TRANSLATION IN SIR WILLIAM JONES' ESSAY ON THE POETRY OF THE EASTERN NATIONS.


Guard thou, my Son, the Helpless and the Poor,
    Nor in the chains of thine own indolence
    Slumber enervate, while the joys of sense
    Engross thee; and thou say'st, "I ask no more." -
Wise Men the Shepherd's slumber will deplore
    When the rapacious Wolf has leapt the fence,
    And ranges thro' the fold. - My Son, dispense
    Those laws, that justice to the Wrong'd restore. -
The Common-Weal shou'd be the first pursuit
    Of the crown'd Warrior, for the royal brows
    The People first enwreath'd. - They are the Root,
The King the Tree. Aloft he spreads his boughs
    Glorious; but learn, impetuous Youth, at length,
    Trees from the Root alone der...

"Come hither, little brothers,
    And listen now to me,
And I will read a story
    To both, while at my knee."

Then Johnnie's flag hung idly,
    And Charlie hushed his drum;
To hear sweet Mary's story
    The mimic soldiers come.

"'Tis of a boy no larger,
    My little Charles, than you;
But he had been in battle,
    And all its terrors knew.

"His father was a captain;
    He had no child beside;
And while he was an infant
    His mother dear had died.

"And so from camp to battle,
    From fight to camp again,
Had lived, this little hero,
    On many a bloody plain.

"One day, when shouts were loudest
    Upon the reddened field,--
When came the victor's war-cry,
    'See! see! they fly! they ...

A lover whom duty called over the wave,
With himself communed: "Will my love be true
If left to herself? Had I better not sue
Some friend to watch over her, good and grave?
But my friend might fail in my need," he said,
"And I return to find love dead.
Since friendships fade like the flow'rs of June,
I will leave her in charge of the stable moon."

Then he said to the moon: "O dear old moon,
Who for years and years from thy thrown above
Hast nurtured and guarded young lovers and love,
My heart has but come to its waiting June,
And the promise time of the budding vine;
Oh, guard thee well this love of mine."
And he harked him then while all was still,
And the pale moon answered and said, "I will."

And he sailed in his ship o'er many seas,
And he...

Now to those who search the deep,
    Gleam of Hope and Kindly Light,
Once, before you turn to sleep,
    Breathe a message through the night.
Never doubt that they'll receive it.
Send it, once, and you'll believe it.

Wrecks that burn against the stars,
    Decks where death is wallowing green,
Snare the breath among their spars,
    Hear the flickering threads between,
Quick, through all the storms that blind them,
Quick with words that rush to find them.

Think you these aërial wires
    Whisper more than spirits may?
Think you that our strong desires
    Touch no distance when we pray?
Think you that no wings are flying
'Twixt the living and the dying?

Inland, here, upon your knees,
    You shall breathe from ur...

IN MEMORY OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel,
Brother, on this that was the veil of thee?
Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea,
Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel,
Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave,
Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve?
Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before,
Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat
And full of bitter summer, but more sweet
To thee than gleanings of a northern shore
Trod by no tropic feet?

For always thee the fervid languid glories
Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies;
Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs
Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories,
The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave
That knows not where is that Leucadian grave...

Shut it out of the heart this grief,
O Love, with the years grown old and hoary!
And let in joy that life is brief,
And give God thanks for the end of the story.

The bond of the flesh is transitory,
And beauty goes with the lapse of years
The brow's white rose and the hair's dark glory
God be thanked for the severing shears!

Over the past, Heart, waste no tears!
Over the past and all its madness,
Its wine and wormwood, hopes and fears,
That never were worth a moment's sadness.

Here she lies who was part o' its gladness,
Wife and mistress, and shared its woe,
The good of life as well as its badness,
Look on her face and see if you know.

Is this the face? yea, ask it slow!
The hair, the form, that we used to cherish?
Where is th...

God guard me from those thoughts men think
In the mind alone;
He that sings a lasting song
Thinks in a marrow-bone;

From all that makes a wise old man
That can be praised of all;
O what am I that I should not seem
For the song's sake a fool?

I pray, for word is out
And prayer comes round again,
That I may seem, though I die old,
A foolish, passionate man.

The goodman sat beside his door
One sultry afternoon,
With his young wife singing at his side
An old and goodly tune.

A glimmer of heat was in the air,
The dark green woods were still;
And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud
Hung over the western hill.

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud
Above the wilderness,

As some dark world from upper air
Were stooping over this.

At times the solemn thunder pealed,
And all was still again,
Save a low murmur in the air
Of coming wind and rain.

Just as the first big rain-drop fell,
A weary stranger came,
And stood before the farmer's door,
With travel soiled and lame.

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope
Was in his quiet glance,
And peace, like autumn's moon...

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
    As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
    That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
    Each feeling that once was dear?--
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
    I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
    Been like our Lagenian mine,[1]
Where sparkles of golden splendor
    All over the surface shine--
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
    Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
    Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,[2]
    That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory--
    Has Hope been ...

        Love, should I set my heart upon a crown,
            Squander my years, and gain it,
        What recompense of pleasure could I own?
            For youth's red drops would stain it.

        Much have I thought on what our lives may mean,
            And what their best endeavor,
        Seeing we may not come again to glean,
            But, losing, lose forever.

        Seeing how zealots, making choice of pain,
            From home and country parted,
        Have thought it life to leave their fellows slain,
            Their women broken-hearted;

        How teasing truth a thousand faces claims,
            As in a broken mirror,
        And what a father died for in the flames
            His own son scorns as error;

 ...

I'll get me hence,
Because no fence
Or fort that I can make here,
But love by charms,
Or else by arms
Will storm, or starving take here.

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping
    Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
    For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.
But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
        She saw History write,
        With a pencil of light
That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington's name.

"Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling
    With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies--
"Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
    "I've watched for some glory like thine to arise.
"For, tho' heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot,
"And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame;--
        "But oh! there is not
        "...

Was never form and never face
So sweet to SEYD as only grace
Which did not slumber like a stone,
But hovered gleaming and was gone.
Beauty chased he everywhere,
In flame, in storm, in clouds of air.
He smote the lake to feed his eye
With the beryl beam of the broken wave;
He flung in pebbles well to hear
The moment's music which they gave.
Oft pealed for him a lofty tone
From nodding pole and belting zone.
He heard a voice none else could hear
From centred and from errant sphere.
The quaking earth did quake in rhyme,
Seas ebbed and flowed in epic chime.
In dens of passion, and pits of woe,
He saw strong Eros struggling through,
To sun the dark and solve the curse,
And beam to the bounds of the universe.
While thus to love he gave his days