Ballads, Lyrics, and Poems of Old France Part 8

I DREAMED that somewhere in the shadowy place, Grief of farewell unspoken was forgot In welcome, and regret remembered not; And hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praise On lips that had been songless many days; Hope had no more to hope for, and desire And dread were overpast, in white attire New born we walked among the new world's ways.

Then from the press of shades a spirit threw Towards me such apples as these gardens bear; And turning, I was 'ware of her, and knew And followed her fleet voice and flying hair,- Followed, and found her not, and seeking you I found you never, dearest, anywhere.

A STAR IN THE NIGHT.

THE perfect piteous beauty of thy face, Is like a star the dawning drives away; Mine eyes may never see in the bright day Thy pallid halo, thy supernal grace: But in the night from forth the silent place Thou comest, dim in dreams, as doth a stray Star of the starry flock that in the grey Is seen, and lost, and seen a moment's s.p.a.ce.

And as the earth at night turns to a star, Loved long ago, and dearer than the sun, So in the spiritual place afar, At night our souls are mingled and made one, And wait till one night fall, and one dawn rise, That brings no noon too splendid for your eyes.

A SUNSET ON YARROW.

THE wind and the day had lived together, They died together, and far away Spoke farewell in the sultry weather, Out of the sunset, over the heather, The dying wind and the dying day.

Far in the south, the summer levin Flushed, a flame in the grey soft air: We seemed to look on the hills of heaven; You saw within, but to me 'twas given To see your face, as an angel's, there.

Never again, ah surely never Shall we wait and watch, where of old we stood, The low good-night of the hill and the river, The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver, Twain grown one in the solitude.

HESPEROTHEN.

BY the example of certain Grecian mariners, who, being safely returned from the war about Troy, leave yet again their old lands and G.o.ds, seeking they know not what, and choosing neither to abide in the fair Phaeacian island, nor to dwell and die with the Sirens, at length end miserably in a desert country by the sea, is set forth the _Vanity of Melancholy_. And by the land of Phaeacia is to be understood the place of Art and of fair Pleasures; and by Circe's Isle, the places of bodily delights, whereof men, falling aweary, attain to Eld, and to the darkness of that age. Which thing Master Francoys Rabelais feigned, under the similitude of the Isle of the Macraeones.

THE SEEKERS FOR PHaeACIA.

THERE is a land in the remotest day, Where the soft night is born, and sunset dies; The eastern sh.o.r.es see faint tides fade away, That wash the lands where laughter, tears, and sighs, Make life,-the lands beneath the blue of common skies.

But in the west is a mysterious sea, (What sails have seen it, or what s.h.i.+pmen known?) With coasts enchanted where the Sirens be, With islands where a G.o.ddess walks alone, And in the cedar trees the magic winds make moan

Eastward the human cares of house and home, Cities, and s.h.i.+ps, and unknown G.o.ds, and loves; Westward, strange maidens fairer than the foam, And lawless lives of men, and haunted groves, Wherein a G.o.d may dwell, and where the Dryad roves.

The G.o.ds are careless of the days and death Of toilsome men, beyond the western seas; The G.o.ds are heedless of their painful breath, And love them not, for they are not as these; But in the golden west they live and lie at ease.

Yet the Phaeacians well they love, who live At the light's limit, pa.s.sing careless hours, Most like the G.o.ds; and they have gifts to give, Even wine, and fountains musical, and flowers, And song, and if they will, swift s.h.i.+ps, and magic powers.

It is a quiet midland; in the cool Of twilight comes the G.o.d, though no man prayed, To watch the maids and young men beautiful Dance, and they see him, and are not afraid, For they are near of kin to G.o.ds, and undismayed.

Ah, would the bright red prows might bring us nigh The dreamy isles that the Immortals keep!

But with a mist they hide them wondrously, And far the path and dim to where they sleep,- The loved, the shadowy lands along the shadowy deep.

A SONG OF PHaeACIA.

THE languid sunset, mother of roses, Lingers, a light on the magic seas, The wide fire flames, as a flower uncloses, Heavy with odour, and loose to the breeze.

The red rose clouds, without law or leader, Gather and float in the airy plain; The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar, The cedar scatters his scent to the main.

The strange flowers' perfume turns to singing, Heard afar over moonlit seas; The Siren's song, grown faint in winging, Falls in scent on the cedar trees.

As waifs blown out of the sunset, flying, Purple, and rosy, and grey, the birds Brighten the air with their wings; their crying Wakens a moment the weary herds.

b.u.t.terflies flit from the fairy garden, Living blossoms of flying flowers; Never the nights with winter harden, Nor moons wax keen in this land of ours.

Great fruits, fragrant, green and golden, Gleam in the green, and droop and fall; Blossom, and bud, and flower unfolden, Swing, and cling to the garden wall.

Deep in the woods as twilight darkens, Glades are red with the scented fire; Far in the dells the white maid hearkens, Song and sigh of the heart's desire.

Ah, and as moonlight fades in morning, Maiden's song in the matin grey, Faints as the first bird's note, a warning, Wakes and wails to the new-born day.

The waking song and the dying measure Meet, and the waxing and waning light Meet, and faint with the hours of pleasure, The rose of the sea and the sky is white.

THE DEPARTURE FROM PHaeACIA.

THE PHaeACIANS.

WHY from the dreamy meadows, More fair than any dream, Why will you seek the shadows Beyond the ocean stream?

Through straits of storm and peril, Through firths unsailed before, Why make you for the sterile, The dark Kimmerian sh.o.r.e?

There no bright streams are flowing, There day and night are one, No harvest time, no sowing, No sight of any sun;

No sound of song or tabor, No dance shall greet you there; No noise of mortal labour, Breaks on the blind chill air.

Are ours not happy places, Where G.o.ds with mortals trod?

Saw not our sires the faces Of many a present G.o.d?

THE SEEKERS.

Nay, now no G.o.d comes. .h.i.ther, In shape that men may see; They fare we know not whither, We know not what they be.

Yea, though the sunset lingers Far in your fairy glades, Though yours the sweetest singers, Though yours the kindest maids,

Yet here be the true shadows, Here in the doubtful light; Amid the dreamy meadows No shadow haunts the night.