The Poems of William Watson | Page 4

with such submissive airs As age demands in

reverence from the young, Await these crumbs of praise from Europe
flung, And doubt of our own greatness till it bears The signet of your
Goethes or Voltaires? We who alone in latter times have sung With
scarce less power than Arno's exiled tongue-- We who are Milton's
kindred, Shakespeare's heirs. The prize of lyric victory who shall gain
If ours be not the laurel, ours the palm? More than the froth and flotsam
of the Seine, More than your Hugo-flare against the night, And more
than Weimar's proud elaborate calm, One flash of Byron's lightning,
Wordsworth's light.

ENGLAND TO IRELAND
(FEBRUARY 1888)
Spouse whom my sword in the olden time won me, Winning me hatred
more sharp than a sword-- Mother of children who hiss at or shun me,
Curse or revile me, and hold me abhorred-- Heiress of anger that
nothing assuages, Mad for the future, and mad from the past-- Daughter
of all the implacable ages, Lo, let us turn and be lovers at last!
Lovers whom tragical sin hath made equal, One in transgression and
one in remorse. Bonds may be severed, but what were the sequel?
Hardly shall amity come of divorce. Let the dead Past have a royal
entombing, O'er it the Future built white for a fane! I that am haughty
from much overcoming Sue to thee, supplicate--nay, is it vain?
Hate and mistrust are the children of blindness,-- Could we but see one
another, 'twere well! Knowledge is sympathy, charity, kindness,
Ignorance only is maker of hell. Could we but gaze for an hour, for a
minute, Deep in each other's unfaltering eyes, Love were begun--for
that look would begin it-- Born in the flash of a mighty surprise.
Then should the ominous night-bird of Error, Scared by a sudden
irruption of day, Flap his maleficent wings, and in terror Flit to the
wilderness, dropping his prey. Then should we, growing in strength and
in sweetness, Fusing to one indivisible soul, Dazzle the world with a
splendid completeness, Mightily single, immovably whole.
Thou, like a flame when the stormy winds fan it, I, like a rock to the
elements bare,-- Mixed by love's magic, the fire and the granite, Who
should compete with us, what should compare? Strong with a strength
that no fate might dissever, One with a oneness no force could divide,
So were we married and mingled for ever, Lover with lover, and

bridegroom with bride.

MENSIS LACRIMARUM
(MARCH 1885)
March, that comes roaring, maned, with rampant paws, And bleatingly
withdraws; March,--'tis the year's fantastic nondescript, That, born
when frost hath nipped The shivering fields, or tempest scarred the hills,
Dies crowned with daffodils. The month of the renewal of the earth By
mingled death and birth: But, England! in this latest of thy years Call
it--the Month of Tears.

"UNDER THE DARK AND PINY STEEP"
Under the dark and piny steep We watched the storm crash by: We saw
the bright brand leap and leap Out of the shattered sky.
The elements were minist'ring To make one mortal blest; For, peal by
peal, you did but cling The closer to his breast.

THE BLIND SUMMIT
[A Viennese gentleman, who had climbed the Hoch-König without a
guide, was found dead, in a sitting posture, near the summit, upon
which he had written, "It is cold, and clouds shut out the view."--Vide
the Daily News of September 10, 1891.]
So mounts the child of ages of desire, Man, up the steeps of Thought;
and would behold Yet purer peaks, touched with unearthlier fire, In
sudden prospect virginally new; But on the lone last height he sighs:
"'Tis cold, And clouds shut out the view."
Ah, doom of mortals! Vexed with phantoms old, Old phantoms that
waylay us and pursue,-- Weary of dreams,--we think to see unfold The
eternal landscape of the Real and True; And on our Pisgah can but
write: "'Tis cold, And clouds shut out the view."

TO LORD TENNYSON
(WITH A VOLUME OF VERSE)
Master and mage, our prince of song, whom Time, In this your autumn
mellow and serene, Crowns ever with fresh laurels, nor less green Than

garlands dewy from your verdurous prime; Heir of the riches of the
whole world's rhyme, Dow'r'd with the Doric grace, the Mantuan mien,
With Arno's depth and Avon's golden sheen; Singer to whom the
singing ages climb, Convergent;--if the youngest of the choir May
snatch a flying splendour from your name Making his page illustrious,
and aspire For one rich moment your regard to claim, Suffer him at
your feet to lay his lyre And touch the skirts and fringes of your fame.

SKETCH OF A POLITICAL CHARACTER
(1885)
There is a race of men, who master