The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 8

Ford Madox Ford [1873-

EPILOGUE From "Emblems Of Love"

What shall we do for Love these days?

How shall we make an altar-blaze To smite the h.o.r.n.y eyes of men With the renown of our Heaven, And to the unbelievers prove Our service to our dear G.o.d, Love?

What torches shall we lift above The crowd that pushes through the mire, To amaze the dark heads with strange fire?

I should think I were much to blame, If never I held some fragrant flame Above the noises of the world, And openly 'mid men's hurrying stares, Wors.h.i.+pped before the sacred fears That are like flas.h.i.+ng curtains furled Across the presence of our lord Love.

Nay, would that I could fill the gaze Of the whole earth with some great praise Made in a marvel for men's eyes, Some tower of glittering masonries, Therein such a spirit flouris.h.i.+ng Men should see what my heart can sing: All that Love hath done to me Built into stone, a visible glee; Marble carried to gleaming height As moved aloft by inward delight; Not as with toil of chisels hewn, But seeming poised in a mighty tune.

For of all those who have been known To lodge with our kind host, the sun, I envy one for just one thing: In Cordova of the Moors There dwelt a pa.s.sion-minded King, Who set great bands of marble-hewers To fas.h.i.+on his heart's thanksgiving In a tall palace, shapen so All the wondering world might know The joy he had of his Moorish la.s.s.

His love, that brighter and larger was Than the starry places, into firm stone He sent, as if the stone were gla.s.s Fired and into beauty blown.

Solemn and invented gravely In its bulk the fabric stood, Even as Love, that trusteth bravely In its own exceeding good To be better than the waste Of time's devices; grandly s.p.a.ced, Seriously the fabric stood.

But over it all a pleasure went Of carven delicate ornament, Wreathing up like ravishment, Mentioning in sculptures twined The blitheness Love hath in his mind; And like delighted senses were The windows, and the columns there Made the following sight to ache As the heart that did them make.

Well I can see that s.h.i.+ning song Flowering there, the upward throng Of porches, pillars and windowed walls, Spires like piercing panpipe calls, Up to the roof's snow-cloud flight; All glancing in the Spanish light White as water of arctic tides, Save an amber dazzle on sunny sides.

You had said, the radiant sheen Of that palace might have been A young G.o.d's fantasy, ere he came His serious worlds and suns to frame; Such an immortal pa.s.sion Quivered among the slim hewn stone.

And in the nights it seemed a jar Cut in the substance of a star, Wherein a wine, that will be poured Some time for feasting Heaven, was stored.

But within this fretted sh.e.l.l, The wonder of Love made visible, The King a private gentle mood There placed, of pleasant quietude.

For right amidst there was a court, Where always musked silences Listened to water and to trees; And herbage of all fragrant sort,-- Lavender, lad's-love, rosemary, Basil, tansy, centaury,-- Was the gra.s.s of that orchard, hid Love's amazements all amid.

Jarring the air with rumor cool, Small fountains played into a pool With sound as soft as the barley's hiss When its beard just sprouting is; Whence a young stream, that trod on moss, Prettily rimpled the court across.

And in the pool's clear idleness, Moving like dreams through happiness, Shoals of small bright fishes were; In and out weed-thickets bent Perch and carp, and sauntering went With mounching jaws and eyes a-stare; Or on a lotus leaf would crawl A brindled loach to bask and sprawl, Tasting the warm sun ere it dipped Into the water; but quick as fear Back his s.h.i.+ning brown head slipped To crouch on the gravel of his lair, Where the cooled sunbeams, broke in wrack, Spilt shattered gold about his back.

So within that green-veiled air, Within that white-walled quiet, where Innocent water thought aloud,-- Childish prattle that must make The wise sunlight with laughter shake On the leaf.a.ge overbowed,-- Often the King and his love-la.s.s Let the delicious hours pa.s.s.

All the outer world could see Graved and sawn amazingly Their love's delighted riotise, Fixed in marble for all men's eyes; But only these twain could abide In the cool peace that withinside Thrilling desire and pa.s.sion dwelt; They only knew the still meaning spelt By Love's flaming script, which is G.o.d's word written in ecstasies.

And where is now that palace gone, All the magical skilled stone, All the dreaming towers wrought By Love as if no more than thought The unresisting marble was?

How could such a wonder pa.s.s?

Ah, it was but built in vain Against the stupid horns of Rome, That pushed down into the common loam The loveliness that shone in Spain.

But we have raised it up again!

A loftier palace, fairer far, Is ours, and one that fears no war.

Safe in marvellous walls we are; Wondering sense like builded fires, High amazement of desires, Delight and certainty of love, Closing around, roofing above Our unapproached and perfect hour Within the splendors of love's power.

Lascelles Abercrombie [1881-

ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH

Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree, His scarlet tunic burns; And livelier than the green sap's mantling glee The Spring fire tingles through him headily As quivering he turns And stammers out the old amazing tale Of youth and April weather; While she, with half-breathed jests that, sobbing, fail, Sits, tight-lipped, quaking, eager-eyed and pale, Beneath her purple feather.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson [1878-

ONCE ON A TIME

Once on a time, once on a time, Before the Dawn began, There was a nymph of Dian's train Who was beloved of Pan; Once on a time a peasant lad Who loved a la.s.s at home; Once on a time a Saxon king Who loved a queen of Rome.

The world has but one song to sing, And it is ever new, The first and last of all the songs For it is ever true-- A little song, a tender song, The only song it hath; "There was a youth of Ascalon Who loved a girl of Gath."

A thousand thousand years have gone, And aeons still shall pa.s.s, Yet shall the world forever sing Of him who loved a la.s.s-- An olden song, a golden song, And sing it unafraid: "There was a youth, once on a time, Who dearly loved a maid."

Kendall Banning [1879-

IN PRAISE OF HER

FIRST SONG From "Astrophel and Stella"

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth?

To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only in you my song begins and endeth.

Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure?

Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure?

To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.

Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth?

Who womankind at once both decks and staineth?

To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.

Who hath the feet, whose step all sweetness planteth?

Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth?

To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.

Who hath the breast, whose milk doth pa.s.sions nourish?

Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish?

To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.

Who hath the hand, which without stroke subdueth?

Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?