Collected Poems - LightNovelsOnl.com
You're reading novel online at LightNovelsOnl.com. Please use the follow button to get notifications about your favorite novels and its latest chapters so you can come back anytime and won't miss anything.
Hasten the Kingdom, England, queen and mother; Little we know of all Time's works and ways; Yet this, this, this is sure: we need none other Knowledge or wisdom, hope or aim or praise,
But to keep this one stormy banner flying In this one faith that none shall e'er disprove, Then drive the embattled world before thee, crying, There is one Emperor, whose name is Love.
ODE FOR THE SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY OF SWINBURNE
I
He needs no crown of ours, whose golden heart Poured out its wealth so freely in pure praise Of others: him the imperishable bays Crown, and on Sunium's height he sits apart: He hears immortal greetings this great morn: Fain would we bring, we also, all we may, Some wayside flower of transitory bloom, Frail tribute, only born To greet the gladness of this April day Then waste on death's dark wind its faint perfume.
II
Here on this April day the whole sweet Spring Speaks thro' his music only, or seems to speak.
And we that hear, with hearts uplift and weak, What can we more than claim him for our king?
Here on this April day (and many a time Shall April come and find him singing still) He is one with the world's great heart beyond the years, One with the pulsing rhyme Of tides that work some heavenly rhythmic will And hold the secret of all human tears.
III
For he, the last of that immortal race Whose music, like a robe of living light Re-clothed each new-born age and made it bright As with the glory of Love's transfiguring face, Reddened earth's roses, kindled the deep blue Of England's radiant, ever-singing sea, Recalled the white Thala.s.sian from the foam.
Woke the dim stars anew And triumphed in the triumph of Liberty, We claim him; but he hath not here his home.
IV
Not here; round him to-day the clouds divide: We know what faces thro' that rose-flushed air Now bend above him: Sh.e.l.ley's face is there, And Hugo's, lit with more than kingly pride.
Replenished there with splendour, the blind eyes Of Milton bend from heaven to meet his own, Sappho is there, crowned with those queenlier flowers Whose graft outgrew our skies, His gift: Shakespeare leans earthward from his throne With hands outstretched. He needs no crown of ours.
IN CLOAK OF GREY
I
Love's a pilgrim, cloaked in grey, And his feet are pierced and bleeding: Have ye seen him pa.s.s this way Sorrowfully pleading?
Ye that weep the world away, Have ye seen King Love to-day?--
II
Yea, we saw him; but he came Poppy-crowned and white of limb!
Song had touched his lips with flame, And his eyes were drowsed and dim; And we kissed the hours away Till night grew rosier than the day.--
III
Hath he left you?--Yea, he left us A little while ago, Of his laughter quite bereft us And his limbs of snow; We know not why he went away Who ruled our revels yesterday.--
IV
Because ye did not understand Love cometh from afar, A pilgrim out of Holy Land Guided by a star: Last night he came in cloak of grey, Begging. Ye knew him not: he went his way.
A RIDE FOR THE QUEEN
Queen of queens, oh lady mine, You who say you love me, Here's a cup of crimson wine To the stars above me; Here's a cup of blood and gall For a soldier's quaffing!
What's the prize to crown it all?
Death? I'll take it laughing!
I ride for the Queen to-night!
Though I find no knightly fee Waiting on my lealty, High upon the gallows-tree Faithful to my fealty, What had I but love and youth, Hope and fame in season?
She has proved that more than truth Glorifies her treason!
Would that other do as much?
Ah, but if in sorrow Some forgotten look or touch Pierce her heart to-morrow She might love me yet, I think; So her lie befriends me, Though I know there's darker drink Down the road she sends me.
Ay, one more great chance is mine (Can I faint or falter?) She shall pour my blood like wine, Make my heart her altar, Burn it to the dust! For, there, What if o'er the embers She should stoop and--I should hear-- "_Hus.h.!.+ Thy love remembers!_"
One more chance for every word Whispered to betray me, While she buckled on my sword Smiling to allay me; One more chance; ah, let me not Mar her perfect pleasure; Love shall pay me, jot by jot, Measure for her measure.
Faith shall think I never knew, I will be so fervent!
Doubt shall dream I dreamed her true As her war-worn servant!
Whoso flouts her spotless name (Love, I wear thy token!) He shall face one sword of flame Ere the lie be spoken!
All the world's a-foam with may, (Fragrant as her bosom!) Could I find a sweeter way Through the year's young blossom, Where her warm red mouth on mine Woke my soul's desire?...
Hey! The cup of crimson wine, Blood and gall and fire!
Castle Doom or Gates of Death?
(Smile again for pity!) "Boot and horse," my lady saith, "Spur against the City, Bear this message!" G.o.d and she Still forget the guerdon; Nay, the rope is on the tree!
That shall bear the burden!
I ride for the Queen to-night!
SONG
