Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems Part 34

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XX.

EX TENEBRA.

The winds have shower'd their rains upon the sod, And flowers and trees have murmur'd as with lips.

The very silence has appeal'd to G.o.d.

In man's behalf, though smitten by His rod, 'Twould seem as if the blight of some eclipse Had dull'd the skies,--as if, on mountain tips, The winds of Heaven had spurn'd the life terrene, And clouds were foundering like benighted s.h.i.+ps.

But what is this, exultant, unforseen, Which cleaves the dark? A fearful, burning thing!

Is it the moon? Or Saturn's scarlet ring Hurl'd into s.p.a.ce? It is the tempest-sun!

It is the advent of the Phoeban king Which tells the valleys that the storm is done!

XXI.

VICTOR HUGO.

Victor the King! alive to-day, not dead!

Behold, I bring thee with a subject's hand A poor pale wreath, the best at my command, But all unfit to deck so grand a head.

It is the outcome of a neighbour land Denounced of thee, and spurn'd for many years.

It is the token of a nation's tears Which oft has joy'd in thee, and shall again.

Love for thy hate, applause for thy disdain,-- These are the flowers we spread upon thy hea.r.s.e.

We give thee back, to-day, thy poet-curse; We call thee friend; we ratify thy reign.

Kings change their sceptres for a funeral stone, But thou hast turn'd thy tomb into a throne!

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XXII.

CYNTHIA.

O Lady Moon, elect of all the spheres To be the guardian of the ocean-tides, I charge thee, say, by all thy hopes and fears, And by thy face, the oracle of brides, Why evermore Remorse with thee abides?

Is life a bane to thee, and fraught with tears, That thus forlorn and sad thou dost confer With ghosts and shades? Perchance thou dost aspire To bridal honours, and thy Phoebus-sire Forbids the banns, whoe'er thy suitor be?

Is this thy grievance, O thou chief of nuns?

Or dost thou weep to know that Jupiter Hath many moons--his daughters and his sons-- And Earth, thy mother, only one in thee?

XXIII.

PHILOMEL.

Lo, as a minstrel at the court of Love, The nightingale, who knows his mate is nigh, Thrills into rapture; and the stars above Look down, affrighted, as they would reply.

There is contagion, and I know not why, In all this clamour, all this fierce delight, As if the sunset, when the day did swoon, Had drawn some wild confession from the moon.

Have wrongs been done? Have crimes enacted been To shame the weird retirement of the night?

O clamourous bird! O sad; sweet nightingale!

Withhold thy voice, and blame not Beauty's queen.

She may be pure, though dumb: and she is pale, And wears a radiance on her brow serene.

XXIV.

THE SONNET KING.

O Petrarch! I am here. I bow to thee, Great king of sonnets, throned long ago And lover-like, as Love enjoineth me, And miser-like, enamoured of my woe, I reckon up my teardrops as they flow.

I would not lose the power to shed a tear For all the wealth of Plutus and his reign.

I would not be so base as not complain When she I love is absent from my sight.

No, not for all the marvels of the night, And all the varying splendours of the year.

Do thou a.s.sist me, thou! that art the light Of all true lovers' souls, in all the sphere, To make a May-time of my sorrows slain.

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XXV.

TOKEN FLOWERS.

Oh, not the daisy, for the love of G.o.d!

Take not the daisy; let it bloom apace Untouch'd alike by splendour or disgrace Of party feud. Its stem is not a rod; And no one fears, or hates it, on the sod.

It laughs, exultant, in the Morning's face, And everywhere doth fill a lowly place, Though fraught with favours for the darkest clod.

'Tis said the primrose is a party flower, And means coercion, and the coy renown Of one who toil'd for country and for crown.

This may be so! But, in my Lady's bower, It means content,--a hope,--a golden hour.

Primroses smile; and daisies cannot frown!

XXVI.

A PRAYER FOR ENGLAND.