Contemporary Belgian Poetry Part 2

Or rather I had been that favoured page Who trained your hounds and falcons that he might After you down the valley, o'er the height Go galloping in eager va.s.salage.

I might have heard my lord solicit bliss, And swear to you his vehement promises; And gone to ma.s.s with you at dewy prime;

And in the cool of evenings I, to woo The smile of your loved lips, had sung to you The secret love of lovers of old time.

THOMAS BRAUN.

1876--.

THE BENEDICTION OF THE NUPTIAL RING.

"_Ut quae c.u.m gestaverit fidelitatem integram suo sponso tenens in mutua caritate vivat._"

Almighty G.o.d, bless now the ring of gold Which bride and bridegroom shall together hold!

They whom fresh water gave to You are now United in You by the marriage vow.

The ring is of a heavy, beaten ore, And yet it shall not make the finger sore.

But easefully be carried day and night, Because its secret spirit makes it light.

Its perfect circle sinks into the skin, Nor hurts it, and the phalanx growing thin Under its pressure moulds itself ere long, Yet keeps its agile grace and still is strong.

So love, which in this symbol lies, with no Beginning more nor ending here below, Shall, if You bless it, Lord, like gold resist, And never show decay, nor flaw, nor twist, And be so light, though solid, that the soul, A composite yet indivisible whole, Shall keep its tender impress to the last, And never know the bonds that bind it fast.

THE BENEDICTION OF WINE.

"_Ut vinum cor hominis laetifloet._"

Lord, You who heard the prayer of Your divine Mother, and gave Your guests that Cana wine, Deign now to bless as well the vintage new, Which cheers the heart of those who pray to you.

The breeze blew warm upon the flowering shoot, And the sky coloured all the round, green fruit, Which, guarded from oidium and lice, Thrushes, phylloxera, and from dormice, Ripened as You, O Lord, would have it be.

The tendril curled around the sapling tree, And soon the shoots bent under sun-blue sheaves With which September loads the crackling leaves.

Over the winepress sides the juice has run, And, heavily fermenting, cracked the tun.

O Lord, we dedicate to You this wine, Wherein is pent the spirit of the Rhine; We vow to You the vintages of France, Of the Moselle, Black Forest, of Byzance; Cyprus, Marsala, Malaga, and Tent, Malmsey, and s.h.i.+raz of the Orient; That of the Gold Isles scented by the sea, Sherry, Tokay, Thetala.s.somene; Nectar of bishops and of kings, champagne; The blue wine from the hill-sides of Suresnes; The sour, white wine of Huy; Chateau Margaux, s.h.i.+pped to Your abbots world-wide from Bordeaux; Oporto's wine that drives the fever out, And gave to English statesmen rest and gout; Lacryma Christi, Chateauneuf of Popes, Grown, O good Lord, upon Avignon's slopes; Whether in skins or bottles; those you quaff With ceremonial face or lips that laugh; Keep them still clear when cobwebs round them grow, To make all world-sick hearts leap up and glow, To lighten minds that carking cares oppress, And yet not dimming them with drunkenness; Put into them the vigour which sustains Muscles grown flabby; and along the veins Let them regenerate impoverished blood; And bless the privileged pure wine and good, Whose common, fragile colour, still unspiced, Suddenly ceasing to be wine, O Christ, Soon as the blest, trans.m.u.ting word is said, Perpetuates Your blood for sinners shed.

THE BENEDICTION OF THE CHEESES.

"_Dignare sanctificare hanc creaturam casei quam ex adipe animalium producere dignatus es._"

When from the void, good Lord, this earth You raised, You made vast pasture-lands where cattle grazed, Where shepherds led their flocks, and sh.o.r.e their fleeces, And sc.r.a.ped their hides and cut them into pieces, When they had eaten all their n.o.bler flesh, Which with earth's virgin odour still was fresh.

O'er Herve's plateaux our cattle pa.s.s, and browse The ripe gra.s.s which the mist of summer bows, And over which the scents of forests stream.

They give us b.u.t.ter, curds, and milk, and cream.

G.o.d of the fields, Your cheeses bless to-day, For which Your thankful people kneel and pray.

Let them be fat or light, with onions blent, Shallots, brine, pepper, honey; whether scent Of sheep or fields is in them, in the yard Let them, good Lord, at dawn be beaten hard; And let their edges take on silvery shades Under the most red hands of dairymaids; And, round and greenish, let them go to town Weighing the shepherd's folding mantle down; Whether from Parma or from Jura heights, Kneaded by august hands of Carmelites, Stamped with the mitre of a proud abbess, Flowered with the fragrance of the gra.s.s of Bresse, From Brie, hills of the Vosges, or Holland's plain, From Roquefort, Gorgonzola, or from Spain!

Bless them, good Lord! Bless Stilton's royal fare, Red Ches.h.i.+re, and the tearful, cream Gruyere!

Bless Kantercaas, and bless the Mayence round, Where aniseed and other grains are found; Bless Edam, Pottekees, and Gouda then, And those that we salute with "Sir," like men.

ISI-COLLIN.

1878--.

TO THE MUSE.

Skilful the rune of symbols to unravel, And mute avowals hearkened unawares, Before the light from lips of flowers fares With chosen petals I have strown the gravel.

She I awaited came not to the lawn, And, solitary, I have chased all night The lilac's and the lily's breath in flight, And drunk it deeply in the brimful dawn.

Upon the sand these flowers that I have strown My foot has crushed them down with cruel force, And I am kneeling near the mirroring source, Where I have sought her mouth and kissed mine own.

But now I know, and sing with fire renewed Thy mercy, and thy beauty, and thy youth Eternal, and I love thee without ruth, Whom Sappho the divine and Virgil wooed.

I have all odours to perfume thee here, And dyes for mouth and eyes, and I will make Thy looks more luminous, and deep, and clear Than the stainless azure bathing in this lake.

Come with thy too red lips and painted eyes!

My senses wait for thee in these bright bowers, Where they are flowering with the soul of flowers, O mother of fables and of lyric lies,

O courtesan! Come where these willows wave, Lie by the water, I would have thee bare, With nothing round thine ample shoulders save All the sun's gold vibrating in thy hair.

A DREAM.

Dream of the far hours when We were exiled beyond the pale Of our happiness; draw again Over our love that ancient veil.

Offer your lips to the evening breeze That sings among the branches and pa.s.ses, Lay back your head on my knees, Where the river the willow gla.s.ses.

Rest in my hands your head Tired with the weight of the autumn in its tresses red, And dream!

(A fabulous sunset bleeds In the calm water wherein, Among the reeds, Our double shadow grows thin, Bathed in the sunset's red, And the radiant gold of your head.)

Dream of your virginal spirit's plight, When I opened your robe in our wedding night.

(The noise of a wing that lags Dies in the waterflags.

And the shadows which descend With the afterglow, Mysterious and slow, Stay on the bank and o'er the waters bend Their faces of silence.)

Dream of our love, of our joys, And in the shadow sing them low; At the rim of your naked lips My voice shall ambush your voice.

(The moonbeams slow and white Linger on the forest tops, Fall and glide on the river they light, And now a veil of radiance drops On our protecting willow....)