Forty-Two Poems | Page 5

down from heaven, pleased to hear?A young man's song arise so firm and clear.?Has Fancy died? The Morning Star gone cold??Why are you silent? Have we grown so old??Must I alone keep playing? Will not you,?Lord of the Measures, string your lyre anew??Lover of Greece, is this the richest store?You bring us,--withered leaves and dusty lore,?And broken vases widowed of their wine,?To brand you pedant while you stand divine??Decorous words beseem the learned lip,?But Poets have the nicer scholarship.
In English glades they watch the Cyprian glow,?And all the Maenad melodies they know.?They hear strange voices in a London street,?And track the silver gleam of rushing feet;?And these are things that come not to the view?Of slippered dons who read a codex through.
O honeyed Poet, will you praise no more?The moonlit garden and the midnight shore??Brother, have you forgotten how to sing?The story of that weak and cautious king?Who reigned two hundred years in Trebizond??You who would ever strive to pierce beyond?Love's ecstacy, Life's vision, is it well?We should not know the tales you have to tell?
BALLAD OF THE LONDONER
Evening falls on the smoky walls,
And the railings drip with rain,?And I will cross the old river
To see my girl again.
The great and solemn-gliding tram,
Love's still-mysterious car,?Has many a light of gold and white,
And a single dark red star.
I know a garden in a street
Which no one ever knew;?I know a rose beyond the Thames,
Where flowers are pale and few.
THE FIRST SONNET OF BATHROLAIRE
Over the moonless land of Bathrolaire?Rises at night, when revelry begins,?A white unreal orb, a sun that spins,?A sun that watches with a sullen stare?That dance spasmodic they are dancing there,?Whilst drone and cry and drone of violins?Hint at the sweetness of forgotten sins,?Or call the devotees of shame to prayer.?And all the spaces of the midnight town?Ring with appeal and sorrowful abuse.?There some most lonely are: some try to crown?Mad lovers with sad boughs of formal yews,?And Titan women wandering up and down?Lead on the pale fanatics of the muse.
THE SECOND SONNET OF BATHROLAIRE
Now the sweet Dawn on brighter fields afar?Has walked among the daisies, and has breathed?The glory of the mountain winds, and sheathed?The stubborn sword of Night's last-shining star.?In Bathrolaire when Day's old doors unbar?The motley mask, fantastically wreathed,?Pass through a strong portcullis brazen teethed,?And enter glowing mines of cinnabar.?Stupendous prisons shut them out from day,?Gratings and caves and rayless catacombs,?And the unrelenting rack and tourniquet?Grind death in cells where jetting gaslight gloams,?And iron ladders stretching far away?Dive to the depths of those eternal domes.
THE MASQUE OF THE MAGI
Three Kings have come to Bethlehem?With a trailing star in front of them.
MARY
What would you in this little place,
You three bright kings?
KINGS
Mother, we tracked the trailing star?Which brought us here from lands afar,?And we would look on his dear face?Round whom the Seraphs fold their wings.
MARY
But who are you, bright kings?
CASPAR
Caspar am I: the rocky North?From storm and silence drave me forth
Down to the blue and tideless sea.?I do not fear the tinkling sword,?For I am a great battle-lord,
And love the horns of chivalry.?And I have brought thee splendid gold,?The strong man's joy, refined and cold.
All hail, thou Prince of Galilee!
BALTHAZAR
I am Balthazar, Lord of Ind,?Where blows a soft and scented wind
From Taprobane towards Cathay.?My children, who are tall and wise,?Stand by a tree with shutten eyes?And seem to meditate or pray.?And these red drops of frankincense?Betoken man's intelligence.
Hail, Lord of Wisdom, Prince of Day!
MELCHIOR
I am the dark man, Melchior,?And I shall live but little more
Since I am old and feebly move.?My kingdom is a burnt-up land?Half buried by the drifting sand,
So hot Apollo shines above.?What could I bring but simple myrrh?White blossom of the cordial fire?
Hail, Prince of Souls, and Lord of Love!
CHORUS OF ANGELS
O Prince of souls and Lord of Love,?O'er thee the purple-breasted dove?Shall watch with open silver wings,
Thou King of Kings.?Suaviole o flos Virginum,?Apparuit Rex Gentium.?. . .?"Who art thou, little King of Kings?"?His wondering mother sings.
THE BALLAD OF HAMPSTEAD HEATH
From Heaven's Gate to Hampstead Heath
Young Bacchus and his crew?Came tumbling down, and o'er the town
Their bursting trumpets blew.
The silver night was wildly bright,
And madly shone the Moon?To hear a song so clear and strong,
With such a lovely tune.
From London's houses, huts and flats,
Came busmen, snobs, and Earls,?And ugly men in bowler hats
With charming little girls.
Sir Moses came with eyes of flame,
Judd, who is like a bloater,?The brave Lord Mayor in coach and pair,
King Edward, in his motor.
Far in a rosy mist withdrawn
The God and all his crew,?Silenus pulled by nymphs, a faun,
A satyr drenched in dew,
Smiled as they wept those shining tears
Only Immortals know,?Whose feet are set among the stars,
Above the shifting snow.
And one spake out into the night,
Before they left for ever,?"Rejoice, rejoice!" and his great voice
Rolled like a splendid river.
He spake in Greek, which Britons speak
Seldom, and circumspectly;?But Mr. Judd, that