Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 154

O FLY not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure; Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay: For my heart no measure Knows, nor other treasure To buy a garland for my love to-day.

And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow, Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away: For I fain would borrow Thy sad weeds to-morrow, To make a mourning for love's yesterday.

The voice of Pity, Time's divine dear Pity, Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay, But pa.s.sed forth from the city, Making thus my ditty Of fair love lost for ever and a day.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

817. The Desolate City

DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens.

Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars?

Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city.

A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.

Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters, Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love.

Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen'd to their chaunting; Each one sang to his love; only I was alone.

This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and of pleasure.

Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun, Each in another's eyes finds light, the light of compa.s.sion, This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love.

Speak, O desolate city! Speak, O silence in sadness!

Where is she that I loved in my strength, that spoke to my soul?

Where are those pa.s.sionate eyes that appeal'd to my eyes in pa.s.sion?

Where is the mouth that kiss'd me, the breast I laid to my own?

Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled.

Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear?

See, my arms still enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven, See, my desire is fulfill'd in thee, for it fills the earth.

Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turn'd I from the window, Turn'd to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street, Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me, None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears.

Groping I went, as blind. I sought her house, my beloved's.

There I stopp'd at the silent door, and listen'd and tried the latch.

Love, I cried, dost thou slumber? This is no hour for slumber, This is the hour of love, and love I bring in my hand.

I knew the house, with its windows barr'd, and its leafless fig-tree, Climbing round by the doorstep, the only one in the street; I knew where my hope had climb'd to its goal and there encircled All that those desolate walls once held, my beloved's heart.

There in my grief she consoled me. She loved me when I loved not.

She put her hand in my hand, and set her lips to my lips.

She told me all her pain and show'd me all her trouble.

I, like a fool, scarce heard, hardly return'd her kiss.

Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld them.

Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my life.

Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance; This is the fruit of thy love and thee, the unwise grown wise.

Weeping strangled my voice. I call'd out, but none answer'd; Blindly the windows gazed back at me, dumbly the door; See whom I love, who loved me, look'd not on my yearning, Gave me no more her hands to kiss, show'd me no more her soul.

Therefore the earth is dark to me, the sunlight blackness, Therefore I go in tears and alone, by night and day; Therefore I find no love in heaven, no light, no beauty, A heaven taken by storm, where none are left but the slain!

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

818. With Esther

HE who has once been happy is for aye Out of destruction's reach. His fortune then Holds nothing secret; and Eternity, Which is a mystery to other men, Has like a woman given him its joy.

Time is his conquest. Life, if it should fret.

Has paid him tribute. He can bear to die, He who has once been happy! When I set The world before me and survey its range, Its mean ambitions, its scant fantasies, The shreds of pleasure which for lack of change Men wrap around them and call happiness, The poor delights which are the tale and sum Of the world's courage in its martyrdom;

When I hear laughter from a tavern door, When I see crowds agape and in the rain Watching on tiptoe and with stifled roar To see a rocket fired or a bull slain, When misers handle gold, when orators Touch strong men's hearts with glory till they weep, When cities deck their streets for barren wars Which have laid waste their youth, and when I keep Calmly the count of my own life and see On what poor stuff my manhood's dreams were fed Till I too learn'd what dole of vanity Will serve a human soul for daily bread, --Then I remember that I once was young And lived with Esther the world's G.o.ds among.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

819. To Manon, on his Fortune in loving Her

I DID not choose thee, dearest. It was Love That made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blind As a rude shepherd's who to some lone grove His offering brings and cares not at what shrine He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine; The rest was Love's. He took me by the hand, And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine, And spoke the words I might not understand.

I was unwise in all but the dear chance Which was my fortune, and the blind desire Which led my foolish steps to Love's abode, And youth's sublime unreason'd prescience Which raised an altar and inscribed in fire Its dedication To the Unknown G.o.d.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

820. St. Valentine's Day

TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down, With hounds and hors.e.m.e.n, a brave company On this side in its glory lay the sea, On that the Suss.e.x weald, a sea of brown.

The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone, And still we gallop'd on from gorse to gorse: And once, when check'd, a thrush sang, and my horse p.r.i.c.k'd his quick ears as to a sound unknown.

I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even Better than all by this, that through my chase In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven I seem'd to see and follow still your face.

Your face my quarry was. For it I rode, My horse a thing of wings, myself a G.o.d.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

821. Gibraltar

SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more We ride into still water and the calm Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either sh.o.r.e Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, Our exile is accomplish'd. Once again We look on Europe, mistress as of yore Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men.

Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules And Goth and Moor bequeath'd us. At this door England stands sentry. G.o.d! to hear the shrill Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, And at the summons of the rock gun's roar To see her red coats marching from the hill!

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

822. Written at Florence

O WORLD, in very truth thou art too young; When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age?

World, with thy covering of yellow flowers, Hast thou forgot what generations sprung Out of thy loins and loved thee and are gone?

Hast thou no place in all their heritage Where thou dost only weep, that I may come Nor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers?

O world, in very truth thou art too young.

The heroic wealth of pa.s.sionate emprize Built thee fair cities for thy naked plains: How hast thou set thy summer growth among The broken stones which were their palaces!

Hast thou forgot the darkness where he lies Who made thee beautiful, or have thy bees Found out his grave to build their honeycombs?