Selected Poems of Francis Thompson Part 2

_The Father of Heaven._ Spin, daughter Mary, spin, Twirl your wheel with silver din; Spin, daughter Mary, spin, Spin a tress for Viola.

_Angels._ Spin, Queen Mary, a Brown tress for Viola!

II

_The Father of Heaven._ Weave, hands angelical, Weave a woof of flesh to pall-- Weave, hands angelical-- Flesh to pall our Viola.

_Angels._ Weave, singing brothers, a Velvet flesh for Viola!

III

_The Father of Heaven._ Scoop, young Jesus, for her eyes, Wood-browned pools of Paradise-- Young Jesus, for the eyes, For the eyes of Viola.

_Angels._ Tint, Prince Jesus, a Dusked eye for Viola!

IV

_The Father of Heaven._ Cast a star therein to drown, Like a torch in cavern brown, Sink a burning star to drown Whelmed in eyes of Viola.

_Angels._ Lave, Prince Jesus, a Star in eyes of Viola!

V

_The Father of Heaven._ Breathe, Lord Paraclete, To a bubbled crystal meet-- Breathe, Lord Paraclete-- Crystal soul for Viola.

_Angels._ Breathe, Regal Spirit, a Flas.h.i.+ng soul for Viola!

VI

_The Father of Heaven._ Child-angels, from your wings Fall the roseal hoverings, Child-angels, from your wings On the cheeks of Viola.

_Angels._ Linger, rosy reflex, a Quenchless stain, on Viola!

VII

_All things being accomplished, saith the Father of Heaven_: Bear her down, and bearing, sing, Bear her down on spyless wing, Bear her down, and bearing, sing, With a sound of viola.

_Angels._ Music as her name is, a Sweet sound of Viola!

VIII

Wheeling angels, past espial, Danced her down with sound of viol; Wheeling angels, past espial, Descanting on "Viola."

_Angels._ Sing, in our footing, a Lovely lilt of "Viola!"

IX

Baby smiled, mother wailed, Earthward while the sweetling sailed; Mother smiled, baby wailed, When to earth came Viola.

_And her elders shall say_: So soon have we taught you a Way to weep, poor Viola!

X

Smile, sweet baby, smile, For you will have weeping-while; Native in your Heaven is smile,-- But your weeping, Viola?

Whence your smiles, we know, but ah!

Whence your weeping, Viola?-- Our first gift to you is a Gift of tears, my Viola!

TO MY G.o.dCHILD

FRANCIS M. W. M.

This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon, Riding at anchor off the orient sun, Had broken its cable, and stood out to s.p.a.ce Down some frore Arctic of the aerial ways: And now, back warping from the inclement main, Its vapourous shroudage drenched with icy rain, It swung into its azure roads again; When, floated on the prosperous sun-gale, you Lit, a white halcyon auspice, 'mid our frozen crew.

To the Sun, stranger, surely you belong, Giver of golden days and golden song; Nor is it by an all-unhappy plan You bear the name of me, his constant Magian.

Yet ah! from any other that it came, Lest fated to my fate you be, as to my name.

When at the first those tidings did they bring, My heart turned troubled at the ominous thing: Though well may such a t.i.tle him endower, For whom a poet's prayer implores a poet's power.

The a.s.sisian, who kept plighted faith to three, To Song, to Sanct.i.tude, and Poverty, (In two alone of whom most singers prove A fatal faithfulness of during love!); He the sweet Sales, of whom we scarcely ken How G.o.d he could love more, he so loved men; The crown and crowned of Laura and Italy; And Fletcher's fellow--from these, and not from me, Take you your name, and take your legacy!

Or, if a right successive you declare When worms, for ivies, intertwine my hair, Take but this Poesy that now followeth My clayey best with sullen servile breath, Made then your happy freedman by testating death.

My song I do but hold for you in trust, I ask you but to blossom from my dust.

When you have compa.s.sed all weak I began, Diviner poet, and ah! diviner man-- The man at feud with the perduring child In you before song's altar n.o.bly reconciled-- From the wise heavens I half shall smile to see How little a world, which owned you, needed me.

If, while you keep the vigils of the night, For your wild tears make darkness all too bright, Some lone orb through your lonely window peeps, As it played lover over your sweet sleeps, Think it a golden crevice in the sky, Which I have pierced but to behold you by!

And when, immortal mortal, droops your head, And you, the child of deathless song, are dead; Then, as you search with unaccustomed glance The ranks of Paradise for my countenance, Turn not your tread along the Uranian sod Among the bearded counsellors of G.o.d; For, if in Eden as on earth are we, I sure shall keep a younger company: Pa.s.s where beneath their ranged gonfalons The starry cohorts shake their s.h.i.+elded suns, The dreadful ma.s.s of their enridged spears; Pa.s.s where majestical the eternal peers, The stately choice of the great Saintdom, meet-- A silvern segregation, globed complete In sandalled shadow of the Triune feet; Pa.s.s by where wait, young poet-wayfarer, Your cousined cl.u.s.ters, emulous to share With you the roseal lightnings burning 'mid their hair; Pa.s.s the crystalline sea, the Lampads seven:-- Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven.

EX ORE INFANTIUM

Little Jesus, wast Thou shy Once, and just so small as I?

And what did it feel like to be Out of Heaven, and just like me?

Didst Thou sometimes think of _there_, And ask where all the angels were?

I should think that I would cry For my house all made of sky; I would look about the air, And wonder where my angels were; And at waking 'twould distress me-- Not an angel there to dress me!

Hadst Thou ever any toys, Like us little girls and boys?

And didst Thou play in Heaven with all The angels, that were not too tall, With stars for marbles? Did the things Play _Can you see me?_ through their wings?

Didst Thou kneel at night to pray, And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way?

And did they tire sometimes, being young, And make the prayer seem very long?

And dost Thou like it best, that we Should join our hands to pray to Thee?

I used to think, before I knew, The prayer not said unless we do.

And did Thy Mother at the night Kiss Thee, and fold the clothes in right?

And didst Thou feel quite good in bed, Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said?

Thou canst not have forgotten all That it feels like to be small: And Thou know'st I cannot pray To Thee in my father's way-- When Thou wast so little, say, Couldst Thou talk Thy Father's way?-- So, a little Child, come down And hear a child's tongue like Thy own; Take me by the hand and walk, And listen to my baby-talk.

To Thy Father show my prayer (He will look, Thou art so fair), And say: "O Father, I, Thy Son, Bring the prayer of a little one."