Poems by Oscar Wilde Part 3

WAS this His coming! I had hoped to see A scene of wondrous glory, as was told Of some great G.o.d who in a rain of gold Broke open bars and fell on Danae: Or a dread vision as when Semele Sickening for love and unappeased desire Prayed to see G.o.d's clear body, and the fire Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly: With such glad dreams I sought this holy place, And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand Before this supreme mystery of Love: Some kneeling girl with pa.s.sionless pale face, An angel with a lily in his hand, And over both the white wings of a Dove.

FLORENCE.

ITALIA

ITALIA! thou art fallen, though with sheen Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!

Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen Because rich gold in every town is seen, And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride Beneath one flag of red and white and green.

O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain!

Look southward where Rome's desecrated town Lies mourning for her G.o.d-anointed King!

Look heaven-ward! shall G.o.d allow this thing?

Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down, And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.

VENICE.

SONNET

WRITTEN IN HOLY WEEK AT GENOA

I WANDERED through Scoglietto's far retreat, The oranges on each o'erhanging spray Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day; Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay: And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay Laughed i' the sun, and life seemed very sweet.

Outside the young boy-priest pa.s.sed singing clear, 'Jesus the son of Mary has been slain, O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.'

Ah, G.o.d! Ah, G.o.d! those dear h.e.l.lenic hours Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain, The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.

ROME UNVISITED

I.

THE corn has turned from grey to red, Since first my spirit wandered forth From the drear cities of the north, And to Italia's mountains fled.

And here I set my face towards home, For all my pilgrimage is done, Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun Marshals the way to Holy Rome.

O Blessed Lady, who dost hold Upon the seven hills thy reign!

O Mother without blot or stain, Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!

O Roma, Roma, at thy feet I lay this barren gift of song!

For, ah! the way is steep and long That leads unto thy sacred street.

II.

AND yet what joy it were for me To turn my feet unto the south, And journeying towards the Tiber mouth To kneel again at Fiesole!

And wandering through the tangled pines That break the gold of Arno's stream, To see the purple mist and gleam Of morning on the Apennines

By many a vineyard-hidden home, Orchard and olive-garden grey, Till from the drear Campagna's way The seven hills bear up the dome!

III.

A PILGRIM from the northern seas- What joy for me to seek alone The wondrous temple and the throne Of him who holds the awful keys!

When, bright with purple and with gold Come priest and holy cardinal, And borne above the heads of all The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.

O joy to see before I die The only G.o.d-anointed king, And hear the silver trumpets ring A triumph as he pa.s.ses by!

Or at the brazen-pillared shrine Holds high the mystic sacrifice, And shows his G.o.d to human eyes Beneath the veil of bread and wine.

IV.

FOR lo, what changes time can bring!

The cycles of revolving years May free my heart from all its fears, And teach my lips a song to sing.

Before yon field of trembling gold Is garnered into dusty sheaves, Or ere the autumn's scarlet leaves Flutter as birds adown the wold,

I may have run the glorious race, And caught the torch while yet aflame, And called upon the holy name Of Him who now doth hide His face.

ARONA.

URBS SACRA aeTERNA

ROME! what a scroll of History thine has been; In the first days thy sword republican Ruled the whole world for many an age's span: Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen, Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen; And now upon thy walls the breezes fan (Ah, city crowned by G.o.d, discrowned by man!) The hated flag of red and white and green.

When was thy glory! when in search for power Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun, And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod?

Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour, When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One, The prisoned shepherd of the Church of G.o.d.

MONTRE MARIO.

SONNET

ON HEARING THE DIES IRae SUNG IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL

NAY, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring, Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove, Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love Than terrors of red flame and thundering.

The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring: A bird at evening flying to its nest Tells me of One who had no place of rest: I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.

Come rather on some autumn afternoon, When red and brown are burnished on the leaves, And the fields echo to the gleaner's song, Come when the splendid fulness of the moon Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves, And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.

EASTER DAY

THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome: The people knelt upon the ground with awe: And borne upon the necks of men I saw, Like some great G.o.d, the Holy Lord of Rome.

Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head: In splendour and in light the Pope pa.s.sed home.

My heart stole back across wide wastes of years To One who wandered by a lonely sea, And sought in vain for any place of rest: 'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest.