Six Centuries of English Poetry Part 3

I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my s.h.i.+ngly{8} bars; I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow To join the br.i.m.m.i.n.g river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

NOTES.

This little lyric forms a part of "an idyl" of the same t.i.tle, published in 1855. The poet introduces it in the following manner:

"Here, by this brook, we parted; I to the East And he to Italy--too late--too late: . . . . . . . . . Yet the brook he loved . . . . . . . seems, as I re-listen to it, Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy, To me that loved him; for, 'O brook,' he says, 'O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme, 'Whence come you?' and the brook, why not? replies: 'I come from haunts of coot and hern,'" etc.

In reading this poem, observe how strikingly the sound is made to correspond to the sense.

1. =coot.= A wild water-fowl, resembling the duck.

2. =hern.= Heron.

3. =bicker.= To move unsteadily.

4. =thorps.= Small villages. A. S. _thorpe_. From Ger. _trupp_, a troop.

5. =foreland.= A promontory.

6. =hazel covers.= Hazel thickets.

7. =gloom.= Glimmer, s.h.i.+ne obscurely.

8. =s.h.i.+ngly.= Gravelly.

THE LOTOS-EATERS.

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land; "This mounting wave will roll us sh.o.r.eward soon."

In the afternoon they came unto a land, In which it seemed always afternoon.

All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.

Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some through wavering lights and shadows broke Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flushed: and, dewed with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmed sunset lingered low adown In the red West: through mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Bordered with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seemed the same!

And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gus.h.i.+ng of the wave Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien sh.o.r.es; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seemed, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the sh.o.r.e; And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, Of child and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.

Then some one said, "We will return no more;"

And all at once they sang, "Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."

CHORIC SONG.

I.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the gra.s.s, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pa.s.s; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.

Here are cool mosses deep.

And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

II.

Why are we weighed upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness?

All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, "There is no joy but calm!"

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

III.

Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air.

Lo! sweetened with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night.

All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

IV.

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.

Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be?

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb.

Let us alone. What is it that will last?

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.

Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave?

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall, and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

V.

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream!

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whispered speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heaped over with a mound of gra.s.s, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of bra.s.s!

VI.

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffered change; For surely now our household hearths are cold: Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.