Poems by George Meredith - LightNovelsOnl.com
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VII
Alien voices round the s.h.i.+ps, Thick as water, shouting Home.
Argives, pale as midnight foam, Wax before her awful lips: White as stars that front the gloom.
VIII
Like a torch-flame that by day Up the daylight twists, and, pale, Catches air in leaps that fail, Crushed by the inveterate ray, Through her s.h.i.+nes the Ten-Years' Tale.
IX
Once to many a pealing shriek, Lo, from Ilion's topmost tower, Ilion's fierce prophetic flower Cried the coming of the Greek!
Black in Hades sits the hour.
X
Still upon her sunless soul Gleams the narrow hidden s.p.a.ce Forward, where her fiery race Falters on its ashen goal: Still the Future strikes her face.
XI
See toward the conqueror's car Step the purple Queen whose hate Wraps red-armed her royal mate With his Asian tempest-star: Now Ca.s.sandra views her Fate.
XII
King of men! the blinded host Shout:- she lifts her brooding chin: Glad along the joyous din Smiles the grand majestic ghost: Clytemnestra leads him in.
XIII
Lo, their smoky limbs aloof, Shadowing heaven and the seas, Fates and Furies, tangling Threes, Tear and mix above the roof: Fates and fierce Eumenides.
XIV
Is the prophetess with rods Beaten, that she writhes in air?
With the G.o.ds who never spare, Wrestling with the unsparing G.o.ds, Lone, her body struggles there.
XV
Like the snaky torch-flame white, Levelled as aloft it twists, She, her soaring arms, and wrists Drooping, struggles with the light, Helios, bright above all mists!
XVI
In his...o...b..she sees the tower, Dusk against its flaming rims, Where of old her wretched limbs Twisted with the stolen power: Ilium all the l.u.s.tre dims!
XVII
O the bliss upon the plains, Where the joining heroes clashed s.h.i.+eld and spear, and, unabashed, Challenged with hot chariot-reins G.o.ds!--they glimmer ocean-washed.
XVIII
Thrice the Sun-G.o.d's name she calls; Shrieks the deed that shames the sky; Like a fountain leaping high, Falling as a fountain falls: Lo, the blazing wheels go by!
XIX
Captive on a foreign sh.o.r.e, Far from Ilion's h.o.a.ry wave, Agamemnon's bridal slave Speaks Futurity no more: Death is busy with her grave.
THE YOUNG USURPER
On my darling's bosom Has dropped a living rosy bud, Fair as brilliant Hesper Against the br.i.m.m.i.n.g flood.
She handles him, She dandles him, She fondles him and eyes him: And if upon a tear he wakes, With many a kiss she dries him: She covets every move he makes, And never enough can prize him.
Ah, the young Usurper!
I yield my golden throne: Such angel bands attend his hands To claim it for his own.
MARGARET'S BRIDAL EVE
I
The old grey mother she thrummed on her knee: There is a rose that's ready; And which of the handsome young men shall it be?
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
My daughter, come hither, come hither to me: There is a rose that's ready; Come, point me your finger on him that you see: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O mother, my mother, it never can be: There is a rose that's ready; For I shall bring shame on the man marries me: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
Now let your tongue be deep as the sea: There is a rose that's ready; And the man'll jump for you, right briskly will he: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
Tall Margaret wept bitterly: There is a rose that's ready; And as her parent bade did she: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O the handsome young man dropped down on his knee: There is a rose that's ready; Pale Margaret gave him her hand, woe's me!
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
II
O mother, my mother, this thing I must say: There is a rose in the garden; Ere he lies on the breast where that other lay: And the bird sings over the roses.
Now, folly, my daughter, for men are men: There is a rose in the garden; You marry them blindfold, I tell you again: And the bird sings over the roses.
O mother, but when he kisses me!
There is a rose in the garden; My child, 'tis which shall sweetest be!
And the bird sings over the roses.
O mother, but when I awake in the morn!
