第18章

Poem: A VisionTwo crowned Kings, and One that stood alone With no green weight of laurels round his head, But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan For sins no bleating victim can atone, And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.

Girt was he in a garment black and red, And at his feet I marked a broken stone Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.

Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame, I cried to Beatrice, 'Who are these?'

And she made answer, knowing well each name, 'AEschylos first, the second Sophokles, And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.'

Poem: Impression De VoyageThe sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky Burned like a heated opal through the air;We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.

From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek, Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak, And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.

The flapping of the sail against the mast, The ripple of the water on the side, The ripple of girls' laughter at the stern, The only sounds:- when 'gan the West to burn, And a red sun upon the seas to ride, I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

KATAKOLO.

Poem: The Grave Of ShelleyLike burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;Here doth the little night-owl make her throne, And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.

And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red, In the still chamber of yon pyramid Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid, Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.

Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep, But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb In the blue cavern of an echoing deep, Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.

ROME.

Poem: By The ArnoThe oleander on the wall Grows crimson in the dawning light, Though the grey shadows of the night Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

The dew is bright upon the hill, And bright the blossoms overhead, But ah! the grasshoppers have fled, The little Attic song is still.

Only the leaves are gently stirred By the soft breathing of the gale, And in the almond-scented vale The lonely nightingale is heard.

The day will make thee silent soon, O nightingale sing on for love!

While yet upon the shadowy grove Splinter the arrows of the moon.

Before across the silent lawn In sea-green vest the morning steals, And to love's frightened eyes reveals The long white fingers of the dawnFast climbing up the eastern sky To grasp and slay the shuddering night, All careless of my heart's delight, Or if the nightingale should die.

Poem: Fabien Dei Franchi(To my Friend Henry Irving)The silent room, the heavy creeping shade, The dead that travel fast, the opening door, The murdered brother rising through the floor, The ghost's white fingers on thy shoulders laid, And then the lonely duel in the glade, The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore, Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o'er, -These things are well enough, - but thou wert made For more august creation! frenzied Lear Should at thy bidding wander on the heath With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear Pluck Richard's recreant dagger from its sheath -Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare's lips to blow!

Poem: Phedre(To Sarah Bernhardt)

How vain and dull this common world must seem To such a One as thou, who should'st have talked At Florence with Mirandola, or walked Through the cool olives of the Academe:

Thou should'st have gathered reeds from a green stream For Goat-foot Pan's shrill piping, and have played With the white girls in that Phaeacian glade Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.

Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again Back to this common world so dull and vain, For thou wert weary of the sunless day, The heavy fields of scentless asphodel, The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.

Poem: Portia(To Ellen Terry)

I marvel not Bassanio was so bold To peril all he had upon the lead, Or that proud Aragon bent low his head Or that Morocco's fiery heart grew cold:

For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold Which is more golden than the golden sun No woman Veronese looked upon Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.

Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield The sober-suited lawyer's gown you donned, And would not let the laws of Venice yield Antonio's heart to that accursed Jew -O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:

I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.

Poem: Queen Henrietta Maria(To Ellen Terry)In the lone tent, waiting for victory, She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain, Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:

The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky, War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry To her proud soul no common fear can bring:

Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King, Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.

O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face Made for the luring and the love of man!

With thee I do forget the toil and stress, The loveless road that knows no resting place, Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness, My freedom, and my life republican!

Poem: Camma(To Ellen Terry)

As one who poring on a Grecian urn Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made, God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid, And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn And face the obvious day, must I not yearn For many a secret moon of indolent bliss, When in midmost shrine of Artemis I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?

And yet - methinks I'd rather see thee play That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery Made Emperors drunken, - come, great Egypt, shake Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay, I am grown sick of unreal passions, make The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!