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SONG.
('To an air by HENRY LAWES, published in 1652')
The flowers that in thy garden rise, Fade and are gone when Summer flies, And as their sweets by time decay, So shall thy hopes be cast away.
The Sun that gilds the creeping moss Stayeth not Earth's eternal loss: He is the lord of all that live, Yet there is life he cannot give.
{179}.
The stir of Morning's eager breath-- Beautiful Eve's impa.s.sioned death-- Thou lovest these, thou lovest well, Yet of the Night thou canst not tell.
In every land thy feet may tread, Time like a veil is round thy head: Only the land thou seek'st with me Never hath been nor yet shall be.
It is not far, it is not near, Name it hath none that Earth can hear; But there thy Soul shall build again Memories long destroyed of men, And Joy thereby shall like a river Wander from deep to deep for ever.
['When she has finished the child runs into her arms.']
FLORA. Your spell has won her, and I marvel not: She was but half our own.
['To the Child'] Farewell, dear child, 'Tis time to part, you with this lovely lady To dance in silver halls, and gather stars And be the dream you are: while we return To the old toil and harvest of the Earth.
Farewell! and farewell all!
ALL. Farewell! farewell!
['Exeunt omnes.'
{180}.
'The Cicalas: An Idyll'
'Scene': AN ENGLISH GARDEN BY STARLIGHT
'Persons': A LADY AND A POET
THE POET.
Dimly I see your face: I hear your breath Sigh faintly, as a flower might sigh in death And when you whisper, you but stir the air With a soft hush like summer's own despair.
THE LADY ('aloud')
O Night divine, O Darkness ever blest, Give to our old sad Earth eternal rest.
Since from her heart all beauty ebbs away, Let her no more endure the shame of day.
THE POET.
A thousand ages have not made less bright The stars that in this fountain s.h.i.+ne to-night: Your eyes in shadow still betray the gleam That every son of man desires in dream.
{181}.
THE LADY.
Yes, hearts will burn when all the stars are cold; And Beauty lingers--but her tale is told: Mankind has left her for a game of toys, And fleets the golden hour with speed and noise.
THE POET.
Think you the human heart no longer feels Because it loves the swift delight of wheels?
And is not Change our one true guide on earth, The surest hand that leads us from our birth?
THE LADY.
Change were not always loss, if we could keep Beneath all change a clear and windless deep: But more and more the tides that through us roll Disturb the very sea-bed of the soul.
THE POET.
The foam of transient pa.s.sions cannot fret The sea-bed of the race, profounder yet: And there, where Greece and her foundations are, Lies Beauty, built below the tide of war.
THE LADY.
So--to the desert, once in fifty years-- Some poor mad poet sings, and no one hears: But what belated race, in what far clime, Keeps even a legend of Arcadian time?
{182}.
THE POET.
Not ours perhaps: a nation still so young, So late in Rome's deserted orchard sprung, Bears not as yet, but strikes a hopeful root Till the soil yield its old Hesperian fruit.
THE LADY.
Is not the hour gone by? The mystic strain, Degenerate once, may never spring again.
What long-forsaken G.o.ds shall we invoke To grant such increase to our common oak?
THE POET.
Yet may the ilex, of more ancient birth, More deeply planted in that genial earth, From her Italian wildwood even now Revert, and bear once more the golden bough.
THE LADY.
