Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)
Page 72
word and the wine;
These too are fulfilled with the spirit of darkness that guided
their quest divine.
And here, cast up from the ravening sea on the mild land’s merciful
breast,
This comfort they find of their fellows in worship; this guerdon is
theirs of their quest.
Death was captain, and doom was pilot, and darkness the chart of
their way;
Night and hell had in charge and in keeping the host of the foes of
day.
Invincible, vanquished, impregnable, shattered, a sign to her foes
of fear,
A sign to the world and the stars of laughter, the fleet of the
Lord lies here.
Nay, for none may declare the place of the ruin wherein she lies;
Nay, for none hath beholden the grave whence never a ghost shall
rise.
The fleet of the foemen of England hath found not one but a
thousand graves;
And he that shall number and name them shall number by name and by
tale the waves.
VII
I
Sixtus, Pope of the Church whose hope takes flight for heaven to
dethrone the sun,
Philip, king that wouldst turn our spring to winter, blasted,
appalled, undone,
Prince and priest, let a mourner’s feast give thanks to God for
your conquest won.
England’s heel is upon you: kneel, O priest, O prince, in the dust,
and cry,
“Lord, why thus? art thou wroth with us whose faith was great in
thee, God most high?
Whence is this, that the serpent’s hiss derides us? Lord, can thy
pledged word lie?
“God of hell, are its flames that swell quenched now for ever,
extinct and dead?
Who shall fear thee? or who shall hear the word thy servants who
feared thee said?
Lord, art thou as the dead gods now, whose arm is shortened, whose
rede is read?
“Yet we thought it was not for nought thy word was given us, to
guard and guide:
Yet we deemed that they had not dreamed who put their trust in
thee. Hast thou lied?
God our Lord, was the sacred sword we drew not drawn on thy
Church’s side?
“England hates thee as hell’s own gates; and England triumphs, and
Rome bows down:
England mocks at thee; England’s rocks cast off thy servants to
drive and drown:
England loathes thee; and fame betroths and plights with England
her faith for crown.
“Spain clings fast to thee; Spain, aghast with anguish, cries to
thee; where art thou?
Spain puts trust in thee; lo, the dust that soils and darkens her
prostrate brow!
Spain is true to thy service; who shall raise up Spain for thy
service now?
“Who shall praise thee, if none may raise thy servants up, nor
affright thy foes?
Winter wanes, and the woods and plains forget the likeness of
storms and snows:
So shall fear of thee fade even here: and what shall follow thee no
man knows.”
Lords of night, who would breathe your blight on April’s morning
and August’s noon,
God your Lord, the condemned, the abhorred, sinks hellward, smitten
with deathlike swoon:
Death’s own dart in his hateful heart now thrills, and night shall
receive him soon.
God the Devil, thy reign of revel is here for ever eclipsed and
fled:
God the Liar, everlasting fire lays hold at last on thee, hand and
head:
God the Accurst, the consuming thirst that burns thee never shall
here be fed.
II
England, queen of the waves whose green inviolate girdle enrings
thee round,
Mother fair as the morning, where is now the place of thy foemen
found?
Still the sea that salutes us free proclaims them stricken,
acclaims thee crowned.
Times may change, and the skies grow strange with signs of treason
and fraud and fear:
Foes in union of strange communion may rise against thee from far
and near:
Sloth and greed on thy strength may feed as cankers waxing from
year to year.
Yet, though treason and fierce unreason should league and lie and
defame and smite,
We that know thee, how far below thee the hatred burns of the sons
of night,
We that love thee, behold above thee the witness written of life in
light.
Life that shines from thee shows forth signs that none may read not
but eyeless foes:
Hate, born blind, in his abject mind grows hopeful now but as
madness grows:
Love, born wise, with exultant eyes adores thy glory, beholds and
glows.
Truth is in thee, and none may win thee to lie, forsaking the face
of truth:
Freedom lives by the grace she gives thee, born again from thy
deathless youth:
Faith should fail, and the world turn pale, wert thou the prey of
the serpent’s tooth.
Greed and fraud, unabashed, unawed, may strive to sting thee at
heel in vain:
Craft and fear and mistrust may leer and mourn and murmur and plead
and plain:
Thou art thou: and thy sunbright brow is hers that blasted the
strength of Spain.
Mother, mother beloved, none other could claim in place of thee
England’s place:
Earth bears none that beholds the sun so pure of record, so clothed
with grace:
Dear our mother, nor son nor brother is thine, as strong or as fair
of face.
How shalt thou be abased? or how shall fear take hold of thy heart?
of thine,
England, maiden immortal, laden with charge of life and with hopes
divine?
Earth shall wither, when eyes turned hither behold not light in her
darkness shine.
England, none that is born thy son, and lives, by grace of thy
glory, free,
Lives and yearns not at heart and burns with hope to serve as he
worships thee;
None may sing thee: the sea-wind’s wing beats down our songs as it
hails the sea.
TO A SEAMEW
When I had wings, my brother,
Such wings were mine as thine:
Such life my heart remembers
In all as wild Septembers
As this when life seems other,
Though sweet, than once was mine;
When I had wings, my brother,
Such wings were mine as thine.
Such life as thrills and quickens
The silence of thy flight,
Or fills thy note’s elation
With lordlier exultation
Than man’s, whose faint heart sickens
With hopes and fears that blight
Such life as thrills and quickens
The silence of thy flight.
Thy cry from windward clanging
Makes all the cliffs rejoice;
Though storm clothe seas with sorrow,
Thy call salutes the morrow;
While shades of pain seem hanging
Round earth’s most rapturous voice,
Thy cry from windward clanging
Mak
es all the cliffs rejoice.
We, sons and sires of seamen,
Whose home is all the sea,
What place man may, we claim it;
But thine — whose thought may name it?
Free birds live higher than freemen,
And gladlier ye than we —
We, sons and sires of seamen,
Whose home is all the sea.
For you the storm sounds only
More notes of more delight
Than earth’s in sunniest weather:
When heaven and sea together
Join strengths against the lonely
Lost bark borne down by night,
For you the storm sounds only
More notes of more delight.
With wider wing, and louder
Long clarion-call of joy,
Thy tribe salutes the terror
Of darkness, wild as error,
But sure as truth, and prouder
Than waves with man for toy;
With wider wing, and louder
Long clarion-call of joy.
The wave’s wing spreads and flutters,
The wave’s heart swells and breaks;
One moment’s passion thrills it,
One pulse of power fulfils it
And ends the pride it utters
When, loud with life that quakes,
The wave’s wing spreads and flutters,
The wave’s heart swells and breaks.
But thine and thou, my brother,
Keep heart and wing more high
Than aught may scare or sunder;
The waves whose throats are thunder
Fall hurtling each on other,
And triumph as they die;
But thine and thou, my brother,
Keep heart and wing more high.
More high than wrath or anguish,
More strong than pride or fear,
The sense or soul half hidden
In thee, for us forbidden,
Bids thee nor change nor languish,
But live thy life as here,
More high than wrath or anguish,
More strong than pride or fear.
We are fallen, even we, whose passion
On earth is nearest thine;
Who sing, and cease from flying;
Who live, and dream of dying:
Grey time, in time’s grey fashion,
Bids wingless creatures pine:
We are fallen, even we, whose passion
On earth is nearest thine.
The lark knows no such rapture,
Such joy no nightingale,
As sways the songless measure
Wherein thy wings take pleasure:
Thy love may no man capture,
Thy pride may no man quail;
The lark knows no such rapture,
Such joy no nightingale.
And we, whom dreams embolden,
We can but creep and sing
And watch through heaven’s waste hollow
The flight no sight may follow
To the utter bourne beholden
Of none that lack thy wing:
And we, whom dreams embolden,
We can but creep and sing.
Our dreams have wings that falter,
Our hearts bear hopes that die;
For thee no dream could better
A life no fears may fetter,
A pride no care can alter,
That wots not whence or why
Our dreams have wings that falter,
Our hearts bear hopes that die.
With joy more fierce and sweeter
Than joys we deem divine
Their lives, by time untarnished,
Are girt about and garnished,
Who match the wave’s full metre
And drink the wind’s wild wine
With joy more fierce and sweeter
Than joys we deem divine.
Ah, well were I for ever,
Wouldst thou change lives with me,
And take my song’s wild honey,
And give me back thy sunny
Wide eyes that weary never,
And wings that search the sea;
Ah, well were I for ever,
Wouldst thou change lives with me.
Beachy Head: September 1886.
PAN AND THALASSIUS
A LYRICAL IDYL
THALASSIUS
Pan!
PAN
O sea-stray, seed of Apollo,
What word wouldst thou have with me?
My ways thou wast fain to follow
Or ever the years hailed thee
Man.
Now
If August brood on the valleys,
If satyrs laugh on the lawns,
What part in the wildwood alleys
Hast thou with the fleet-foot fauns —
Thou?
See!
Thy feet are a man’s — not cloven
Like these, not light as a boy’s:
The tresses and tendrils inwoven
That lure us, the lure of them cloys
Thee.
Us
The joy of the wild woods never
Leaves free of the thirst it slakes:
The wild love throbs in us ever
That burns in the dense hot brakes
Thus.
Life,
Eternal, passionate, awless,
Insatiable, mutable, dear,
Makes all men’s law for us lawless:
We strive not: how should we fear
Strife?
We,
The birds and the bright winds know not
Such joys as are ours in the mild
Warm woodland; joys such as grow not
In waste green fields of the wild
Sea.
No;
Long since, in the world’s wind veering,
Thy heart was estranged from me:
Sweet Echo shall yield thee not hearing:
What have we to do with thee?
Go.
THALASSIUS
Ay!
Such wrath on thy nostril quivers
As once in Sicilian heat
Bade herdsmen quail, and the rivers
Shrank, leaving a path for thy feet
Dry?
Nay,
Low down in the hot soft hollow
Too snakelike hisses thy spleen:
“O sea-stray, seed of Apollo!”
What ill hast thou heard or seen?
Say.
Man
Knows well, if he hears beside him
The snarl of thy wrath at noon,
What evil may soon betide him,
Or late, if thou smite not soon,
Pan.
Me
The sound of thy flute, that flatters
The woods as they smile and sigh,
Charmed fast as it charms thy satyrs,
Can charm no faster than I
Thee.
Fast
Thy music may charm the splendid
Wide woodland silence to sleep
With sounds and dreams of thee blended
And whispers of waters that creep
Past.
Here
The spell of thee breathes and passes
And bids the heart in me pause,
Hushed soft as the leaves and the grasses
Are hushed if the storm’s foot draws
Near.
Yet
The panic that strikes down strangers
Transgressing thy ways unaware
Affrights not me nor endangers
Through dread of thy secret snare
Set.
PAN
Whence
May man find heart to deride me?
Who made his face as a star
To shine as a God’s beside me?
Nay, get thee away from us, far
Hence.
THALASSIUS
Shall no man’s heart, as he raises
A hymn to thy secret head,
Wax great with the godhead he praises:
Thou, God, shalt be like unto dead
Men.
PAN
Grace
I take not of men’s thanksgiving,
I crave not of lips that live;
They die, and behold, I am living,
While they and their dead Gods give
Place.
THALASSIUS
Yea:
Too lightly the words were spoken
That mourned or mocked at thee dead:
But whose was the word, the token,
The song that answered and said
Nay?
PAN
Whose
But mine, in the midnight hidden,
Clothed round with the strength of night
And mysteries of things forbidden
For all but the one most bright
Muse?
THALASSIUS
Hers
Or thine, O Pan, was the token
That gave back empire to thee
When power in thy hands lay broken
As reeds that quake if a bee
Stirs?
PAN
Whom
Have I in my wide woods need of?
Urania’s limitless eyes
Behold not mine end, though they read of
A word that shall speak to the skies
Doom.
THALASSIUS
She
Gave back to thee kingdom and glory,
And grace that was thine of yore,
And life to thy leaves, late hoary
As weeds cast up from the hoar
Sea.
Song
Can bid faith shine as the morning
Though light in the world be none:
Death shrinks if her tongue sound warning,
Night quails, and beholds the sun
Strong.
PAN
Night
Bare rule over men for ages