第17章

No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew, But gentle violets weeping with the dew Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.

O proudest heart that broke for misery!

O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!

O poet-painter of our English Land!

Thy name was writ in water - it shall stand:

And tears like mine will keep thy memory green, As Isabella did her Basil-tree.

ROME.

Poem: Theocritus - A VillanelleO singer of Persephone!

In the dim meadows desolate Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still through the ivy flits the bee Where Amaryllis lies in state;O Singer of Persephone!

Simaetha calls on Hecate And hears the wild dogs at the gate;Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still by the light and laughing sea Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;O Singer of Persephone!

And still in boyish rivalry Young Daphnis challenges his mate;Dost thou remember Sicily?

Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee, For thee the jocund shepherds wait;O Singer of Persephone!

Dost thou remember Sicily?

Poem: In The Gold Room - A HarmonyHer ivory hands on the ivory keys Strayed in a fitful fantasy, Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly, Or the drifting foam of a restless sea When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.

Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun On the burnished disk of the marigold, Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun When the gloom of the dark blue night is done, And the spear of the lily is aureoled.

And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine Burned like the ruby fire set In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine, Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate, Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

Poem: Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)

I am weary of lying within the chase When the knights are meeting in market-place.

Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.

But I would not go where the Squires ride, I would only walk by my Lady's side.

Alack! and alack! thou art overbold, A Forester's son may not eat off gold.

Will she love me the less that my Father is seen Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?

Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie, Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.

Ah, if she is working the arras bright I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.

Perchance she is hunting of the deer, How could you follow o'er hill and mere?

Ah, if she is riding with the court, I might run beside her and wind the morte.

Perchance she is kneeling in St.Denys, (On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle, I might swing the censer and ring the bell.

Come in, my son, for you look sae pale, The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.

But who are these knights in bright array?

Is it a pageant the rich folks play?

'T is the King of England from over sea, Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.

But why does the curfew toll sae low?

And why do the mourners walk a-row?

O 't is Hugh of Amiens my sister's son Who is lying stark, for his day is done.

Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear, It is no strong man who lies on the bier.

O 't is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall, I knew she would die at the autumn fall.

Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair, Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.

O 't is none of our kith and none of our kin, (Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet, 'Elle est morte, la Marguerite.'

Come in, my son, and lie on the bed, And let the dead folk bury their dead.

O mother, you know I loved her true:

O mother, hath one grave room for two?

Poem: The Dole Of The King's Daughter (Breton)Seven stars in the still water, And seven in the sky;Seven sins on the King's daughter, Deep in her soul to lie.

Red roses are at her feet, (Roses are red in her red-gold hair)And O where her bosom and girdle meet Red roses are hidden there.

Fair is the knight who lieth slain Amid the rush and reed, See the lean fishes that are fain Upon dead men to feed.

Sweet is the page that lieth there, (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)See the black ravens in the air, Black, O black as the night are they.

What do they there so stark and dead?

(There is blood upon her hand)

Why are the lilies flecked with red?

(There is blood on the river sand.)

There are two that ride from the south and east, And two from the north and west, For the black raven a goodly feast, For the King's daughter rest.

There is one man who loves her true, (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew, (One grave will do for four.)No moon in the still heaven, In the black water none, The sins on her soul are seven, The sin upon his is one.

Poem: Amor IntellectualisOft have we trod the vales of Castaly And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown From antique reeds to common folk unknown:

And often launched our bark upon that sea Which the nine Muses hold in empery, And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam, Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home Till we had freighted well our argosy.

Of which despoiled treasures these remain, Sordello's passion, and the honeyed line Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine Driving his pampered jades, and more than these, The seven-fold vision of the Florentine, And grave-browed Milton's solemn harmonies.

Poem: Santa DeccaThe Gods are dead: no longer do we bring To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!

Demeter's child no more hath tithe of sheaves, And in the noon the careless shepherds sing, For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning By secret glade and devious haunt is o'er:

Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;Great Pan is dead, and Mary's son is King.

And yet - perchance in this sea-tranced isle, Chewing the bitter fruit of memory, Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.

Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well For us to fly his anger: nay, but see, The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile.

CORFU.