Forty-Two Poems | Page 5

very

soon, very soon,
The voice of the forge of the Forces,
And ride on a
ridge of the moon,
And sing a celestial tune.
TENEBRIS INTERLUCENTEM
A linnet who had lost her way
Sang on a blackened bough in Hell,

Till all the ghosts remembered well
The trees, the wind, the golden
day.
At last they knew that they had died
When they heard music in that
land,
And someone there stole forth a hand
To draw a brother to his
side.
INVITATION
TO A YOUNG BUT LEARNED FRIEND TO
ABANDON ARCHAEOLOGY FOR THE MOMENT, AND PLAY
ONCE MORE WITH HIS NEGLECTED MUSE.
In those good days when we were young and wise,
You spake to
music, you with the thoughtful eyes,
And God looked 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