The Triumph Of Music Part 11

Here are blackberries largest seen, Rich, winey dark, whereon the lean Black hornet sucks, noons sick with heat, That bend not to the shadowed green The heavy bearded wheat.

At dark, for its forgotten dead, A requiem, of no known wind said, Through ghostly cedars moans and throbs, While to thin starlight overhead The s.h.i.+vering screech-owl sobs.

THE WATER-MAID.

There she rose as white as death, Stars above and stars beneath; Where the ripples brake in splendor To a million, million starlets Twinkling on lake-lilies tender, Rocking to the ripple barlets.

She, brow-belted with white lilies, Rose and oared a s.h.i.+ning shoulder To a downward-purpling boulder: With slim fingers soft and milky, Haled her from the spray-sprent lilies To a ledge, and sitting silky Sang unto the list'ning lilies, Sang and sang beneath the heaven, Belted, wreathed with lilies seven; Falsely sang a wild, wild ditty To a wool-white moon; Till a child both frail and pretty Found her singing on the boulder,-- Dark locks on a milky shoulder,-- 'Neath the wool-white moon.

And the creature singing there Strangled him in her long hair.

THE SEA-KING.

1

In green sea-caverns dim, Deep down, A monarch pale and slim, Whose soul's a frown, He ruleth cold and grim In foamy crown: In green sea-caverns dim, Deep down.

2

He hears the Mermaid sing So sad!

Far off like some curs'd thing, That ne'er is glad, A vague, wild murmuring, That drives men mad: He hears the Mermaid sing So sad!

3

Strange monster bulks are there, That yawn Or roll huge eyes that glare And then are gone; Weird foliage pa.s.sing fair Where clings the sp.a.w.n: Strange monster bulks are there, That yawn.

4

What cares he for wrecked hulls These years!

Red gold the water dulls!

Grim, dead-men jeers On jaws of a thousand skulls Of mariners!

What cares he for wrecked hulls These years!

5

Man's tears are loved of him, Deep down; Set in the foamy rim Of his frail crown To pearls the tear-drops dim Freeze at his frown: Man's tears are loved of him, Deep down.

6

Here be the halls of Sleep Full mute, Chill, shadowy, and deep, Where hangs no lute To make the still heart leap Of man or brute: Here be the halls of Sleep Full mute.

WHERE AND WHAT?

Her ivied towers tall Old forests belt and bar, And oh! the West's dim mountain crests That line the blue afar.

Her gardens face dark cliffs, That seeth against a sea As blue and deep as the eyes of Sleep With saddening mystery.

Red sands roll leagues on leagues Ribbed of the wind and wave; The near warm sky bends from on high The pale brow of a slave.

And when the morning's beams Lie crushed on crag and bay, A wail of flutes and soft-strung lutes O'er the lone land swoons away.

The woods are 'roused from rest, A scent of earth and brine, By brake and lake the wild things wake, And torrents leap and s.h.i.+ne.

But she in one gray tower White-faced knows how he died, And a murderous scorn on her lips is born To curse his heart that lied.

She smiles and sorrows not: "Ah, death! to know," she moans, "The gluttonous grave of the bitter wave Laughs loud above his bones!"

She laughs and hating yearns Out toward the surf's far reach, Like one in sleep, who, wild to weep, Hath only moans for speech.

And when the sun had set, And crocus heavens had fed Their wan fire soon to a thorn-thin moon, The flocking stars that led,

A breeze set in from sea Most odorous with spice, And streamed among big stars that hung Thin mists as white as ice.

And then her eyes waxed large With one last hideous hope, And her throat she bent toward the firmament, Star-scattered scope on scope.

The haunted night, that felt The rapture so accursed, Shook, loosening one green star that spun Wild down the dusk and burst.

Fair was her face as Sin's; "Ah, wretch!" she wailed, "to know A wormy seat at Death's lean feet May not undo such woe!

"The devil-wrangling pit Much dearer than G.o.d's deeps Of serious skies, where thought ne'er dies And memory never sleeps!

"And dearer far than both, Than Heaven or h.e.l.l, the jest, The G.o.dless lot to rot and rot, And not be cursed or blessed!"

THE SPRING.

"_O Fons Bandusiae!_"

Push back the brambles, berry-blue, The hollowed spring is full in view; Deep tangled with luxuriant fern Its rock-imbedded crystal urn.

Not for the loneliness that keeps The coigne wherein its silence sleeps; Not for wild b.u.t.terflies that sway Their pansy pinions all the day Above its mirror; nor the bee, Nor dragon-fly which pa.s.sing see Themselves reflected in its spar; Not for the one white, liquid star That twinkles in its firmament, Nor moon-shot clouds so slowly sent Athwart it when the kindly night Beads all its gra.s.ses with the light, Small jewels of the dimpled dew; Not for the day's reflected blue, Nor the quaint, dainty colored stones That dance within it where it moans; Not for all these I love to sit In silence and to gaze in it.