Poems by George Meredith Volume Ii Part 10

Divinely thrilled was the man, exultingly full, As quick well-waters that come of the heart of earth, Ere yet they dart in a brook are one bubble-pool To light and sound, wedding both at the leap of birth.

The soul of light vivid shone, a stream within stream; The soul of sound from a musical sh.e.l.l outflew; Where others hear but a hum and see but a beam, The tongue and eye of the fountain of life he knew.

IX

He knew the Hours: they were round him, laden with seed Of hours bestrewn upon vapour, and one by one They winged as ripened in fruit the burden decreed For each to scatter; they flushed like the buds in sun, Bequeathing seed to successive similar rings, Their sisters, bearers to men of what men have earned: He knew them, talked with the yet unreddened; the stings, The sweets, they warmed at their bosoms divined, discerned.

X

Not unsolicited, sought by diligent feet, By riddling fingers expanded, oft watched in growth With brooding deep as the noon-ray's quickening wheat, Ere touch'd, the pendulous flower of the plants of sloth, The plants of rigidness, answered question and squeeze, Revealing wherefore it bloomed, uninviting, bent, Yet making harmony breathe of life and disease, The deeper chord of a wonderful instrument.

XI

So pa.s.sed he luminous-eyed for earth and the fates We arm to bruise or caress us: his ears were charged With tones of love in a whirl of voluble hates, With music wrought of distraction his heart enlarged.

Celestial-s.h.i.+ning, though mortal, singer, though mute, He drew the Master of harmonies, voiced or stilled, To seek him; heard at the silent medicine-root A song, beheld in fulfilment the unfulfilled.

XII

Him Phoebus, lending to darkness colour and form Of light's excess, many lessons and counsels gave, Showed Wisdom lord of the human intricate swarm, And whence prophetic it looks on the hives that rave, And how acquired, of the zeal of love to acquire, And where it stands, in the centre of life a sphere; And Measure, mood of the lyre, the rapturous lyre, He said was Wisdom, and struck him the notes to hear.

XIII

Sweet, sweet: 'twas glory of vision, honey, the breeze In heat, the run of the river on root and stone, All senses joined, as the sister Pierides Are one, uplifting their chorus, the Nine, his own.

In stately order, evolved of sound into sight, From sight to sound inters.h.i.+fting, the man descried The growths of earth, his adored, like day out of night, Ascend in song, seeing nature and song allied.

XIV

And there vitality, there, there solely in song, Resides, where earth and her uses to men, their needs, Their forceful cravings, the theme are: there is it strong, The Master said: and the studious eye that reads, (Yea, even as earth to the crown of G.o.ds on the mount), In links divine with the lyrical tongue is bound.

Pursue thy craft: it is music drawn of a fount To spring perennial; well-spring is common ground.

XV

Melampus dwelt among men: physician and sage, He served them, loving them, healing them; sick or maimed, Or them that frenzied in some delirious rage Outran the measure, his juice of the woods reclaimed.

He played on men, as his master, Phoebus, on strings Melodious: as the G.o.d did he drive and check, Through love exceeding a simple love of the things That glide in gra.s.ses and rubble of woody wreck.

LOVE IN THE VALLEY

Under yonder beech-tree single on the greensward, Couched with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.

Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: Then would she hold me and never let me go?

Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, Swift as the swallow along the river's light Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets, Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.

Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, More love should I have, and much less care.

When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, I should miss but one for the many boys and girls.

Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon.

No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon.

Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure, Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.

Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star.

Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar.

Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: So were it with me if forgetting could be willed.

Tell the gra.s.sy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filled.

Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, Arm in arm, all against the raying West, Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, Brave in her shape, and sweeter unpossessed.

Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking Whispered the world was; morning light is she.

Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.

Happy happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew.

Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.

Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-sh.e.l.ls.

Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, Oft ends the day of your s.h.i.+fting brilliant laughter Chill as a dull face frowning on a song.

Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feathered bosom Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset Rich, deep like love in beauty without end.

When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams.

When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden lily Pure from the night, and splendid for the day.

Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashed twilight, Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark, Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him.

Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers.

Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.

All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands.

My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters, Eyes bent anemones, and hangs her hands.

Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, Coming the rose: and unaware a cry Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why.