Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  I stand no up to match you in your sight —

  Who hath said ye have mercy toward us, ye who have might?

  And though ye had mercy, I think I would not pray

  That ye should change your counsel or your way

  To make our life less bitter: if such power

  Be given the stars on one deciduous hour,

  And such might be in planets to destroy

  Grief and rebuild, and break and build up joy,

  What man would stretch forth hand on them to make

  Fate mutable, God foolish, for his sake?

  For if in life or death be aught of trust,

  And if some unseen just God or unjust

  Put soul into the body of natural things

  And in time’s pauseless feet and worldwide wings

  Some spirit of impulse and some sense of will

  That steers them through the seas of good and ill

  To some incognizable and actual end,

  Be it just or unjust, foe to man or friend,

  How should we make the stable spirit to swerve,

  How teach the strong soul of the world to serve,

  The imperious will in time and sense in space

  That gives man life turn back to give man place —

  The conscious law lose conscience of its way,

  The rule and reason fail from night and day,

  The stream flow back toward whence the springs began,

  That less of thirst might sear the lips of man?

  Let that which is be, and sure strength stand sure,

  And evil or good and death or life endure,

  Not alterable and rootless, but indeed

  A very stem born of a very seed

  That brings forth fruit in season: how should this

  Die that was sown, and that not be which is,

  And the old fruit change that came of the ancient root,

  And he that planted bid it not bear fruit,

  And he that watered smite his vine with drouth

  Because its grapes are bitter in our mouth,

  And he that kindled quench the sun with night

  Because its beams are fire against our sight,

  And he that tuned untune the sounding spheres

  Because their song is thunder in our ears?

  How should the skies change and the stars, and time

  Break the large concord of the years that chime,

  Answering, as wave to wave beneath the moon

  That draws them shoreward, mar the whole tide’s tune

  For the instant foam’s sake on one turning wave —

  For man’s sake that is grass upon a grave?

  How should the law that knows not soon or late,

  For whom no time nor space is — how should fate,

  That is not good nor evil, wise nor mad,

  Nor just nor unjust, neither glad nor sad —

  How should the one thing that hath being, the one

  That moves not as the stars move or the sun

  Or any shadow or shape that lives or dies

  In likeness of dead earth or living skies,

  But its own darkness and its proper light

  Clothe it with other names than day or night,

  And its own soul of strength and spirit of breath

  Feed it with other powers than life or death —

  How should it turn from its great way to give

  Man that must die a clearer space to live?

  Why should the waters of the sea be cleft,

  The hills be molten to his right and left,

  That he from deep to deep might pass dry-shod,

  Or look between the viewless heights on God?

  Hath he such eyes as, when the shadows flee,

  The sun looks out with to salute the sea?

  Is his hand bounteous as the morning’s hand?

  Or where the night stands hath he feet to stand?

  Will the storm cry not when he bids it cease?

  Is it his voice that saith to the east wind, Peace?

  Is his breath mightier than the west wind’s breath?

  Doth his heart know the things of life and death?

  Can his face bring forth sunshine and give rain,

  Or his weak will that dies and lives again

  Make one thing certain or bind one thing fast,

  That as he willed it shall be at the last?

  How should the storms of heaven and kindled lights

  And all the depths of things and topless heights

  And air and earth and fire and water change

  Their likeness, and the natural world grow strange,

  And all the limits of their life undone

  Lose count of time and conscience of the sun,

  And that fall under which was fixed above,

  That man might have a larger hour for love?”

  So musing with close lips and lifted eyes

  That smiled with self-contempt to live so wise,

  With silent heart so hungry now so long,

  So late grown clear, so miserably made strong,

  About the wolds a banished man he went,

  The brown wolds bare and sad as banishment,

  By wastes of fruitless flowerage, and grey downs

  That felt the sea-wind shake their wild-flower crowns

  As through fierce hands would pluck from some grey head

  The spoils of majesty despised and dead,

  And fill with crying and comfortless strange sound

  Their hollow sides and heights of herbless ground.

  Yet as he went fresh courage on him came,

  Till dawn rose too within him as a flame;

  The heart of the ancient hills and his were one;

  The winds took counsel with him, and the sun

  Spake comfort; in his ears the shout of birds

  Was as the sound of clear sweet-spirited words,

  The noise of streams as laughter from above

  Of the old wild lands, and as a cry of love

  Spring’s trumpet-blast blown over moor and lea:

  The skies were red as love is, and the sea

  Was as the floor of heaven for love to tread.

  So went he as with light about his head,

  And in the joyous travail of the year

  Grew April-hearted; since nor grief nor fear

  Can master so a young man’s blood so long

  That it shall move not to the mounting song

  Of that sweet hour when earth replumes her wings

  And with fair face and heart set heavenward sings

  As an awakened angel unaware

  That feels his sleep fall from him, and his hair

  By some new breath of wind and music stirred,

  Till like the sole song of one heavenly bird

  Sounds all the singing of the host of heaven,

  And all the glories of the sovereign Seven

  Are as one face of one incorporate light.

  And as that host of singers in God’s sight

  Might draw toward one that slumbered, and arouse

  The lips requickened and rekindling brows,

  So seemed the earthly host of all things born

  In sight of spring and eyeshot of the morn,

  All births of land or waifs of wind and sea,

  To draw toward him that sorrowed, and set free

  From presage and remembrance of all pains

  That life that leapt and lightened in his veins.

  So with no sense abashed nor sunless look,

  But with exalted eyes and heart, he took

  His part of sun or storm-wind, and was glad,

  For all things lost, of these good things he had.

  And the spring loved him surely, being from his birth

  One made out of the better part of earth,

  A man born as at sunrise; one that saw

  Not without reverence and sweet sense of awe

  But wholly without fear
or fitful breath

  The face of life watched by the face of death;

  And living took his fill of rest and strife,

  Of love and change, and fruit and seed of life,

  And when his time to live in light was done

  With unbent head would pass out of the sun:

  A spirit as morning, fair and clear and strong,

  Whose thought and work were as one harp and song

  Heard through the world as in a strange king’s hall

  Some great guest’s voice that sings of festival.

  So seemed all things to love him, and his heart

  In all their joy of life to take such part,

  That with the live earth and the living sea

  He was as one that communed mutually

  With naked heart to heart of friend to friend:

  And the star deepening at the sunset’s end,

  And the moon fallen before the gate of day

  As one sore wearied with vain length of way,

  And the winds wandering, and the streams and skies,

  As faces of his fellows in his eyes.

  Nor lacked there love where he was evermore

  Of man and woman, friend of sea or shore,

  Not measurable with weight of graven gold,

  Free as the sun’s gift of the world to hold

  Given each day back to man’s reconquering sight

  That loses but its lordship for a night.

  And now that after many a season spent

  In barren ways and works of banishment,

  Toil of strange fights and many a fruitless field,

  Ventures of quest and vigils under shield,

  He came back tot he strait of sundering sea

  That parts green Cornwall from grey Brittany,

  Where dwelt the high king’s daughter of the lands,

  Iseult, named alway from her fair white hands,

  She looked on him and loved him; but being young

  Make shamefastness a seal upon her tongue,

  And on her heart, that none might hear its cry,

  Set the sweet signet of humility.

  Yet when he came a stranger in her sight,

  A banished man and weary, no such knight

  As when the Swallow dipped her bows in foam

  Steered singing that imperial Iseult home,

  This maiden with her sinless sixteen years

  Full of sweet thoughts and hopes that played at fears

  Cast her eyes on him but in courteous wise,

  And lo, the man’s face burned upon her eyes

  As though she had turned them on the naked sun:

  And through her limbs she felt sweet passion run

  As fire that flowed down from her face, and beat

  Soft through stirred veins on even to her hands and feet

  As all her body were one heart on flame,

  Athrob with love and wonder and sweet shame.

  And when he spake there sounded in her ears

  As ‘twere a song out of the graves of years

  Heard, and again forgotten, and again

  Remembered with a rapturous pulse of pain.

  But as the maiden mountain snow sublime

  Takes the first sense of April’s trembling time

  Soft on a brow that burns not though it blush

  To feel the sunrise hardly half aflush,

  So took her soul the sense of change, nor thought

  That more than maiden love was more than nought.

  Her eyes went hardly after him, her cheek

  Grew scarce a goodlier flower to hear him speak,

  Her bright mouth no more trembled than a rose

  May for the least wind’s breathless sake that blows

  Too soft to sue save for a sister’s kiss,

  And if she sighed in sleep she knew not this.

  Yet in her heart hovered the thoughts of things

  Past, that with lighter or with heavier wings

  Beat round about her memory, till it burned

  With grief that brightened and with hope that yearned,

  Seeing him so great and sad, not knowing what fate

  Had bowed and crowned a head so sad and great.

  Nor might she guess but little, first or last,

  Though all her heart so hung upon his past,

  Of what she bowed him for what sorrow’s sake:

  For scarce of aught at any time he spake

  That from his own land oversea had sent

  His lordly life to barren banishment.

  Yet still or soft or keen remembrance clung

  Close round her of the least word from his tongue

  That fell by chance of courtesy, to greet

  With grace of tender thanks to her pity, sweet

  As running straems to men’s way-wearied feet.

  And when between strange words her name would fall,

  Suddenly straightway to that lure’s recall

  Back would his heart bound as the falconer’s bird,

  And tremble and bow down before the word.

  “Iseult” — and all the cloudlike world grew flame,

  And all his heart flashed lightning at her name;

  “Iseult” — and all the wan waste weary skies

  Shone as his queen’s own love-enkindled eyes.

  And seeing the bright blood in his face leap up

  As red wine mantling in a royal cup

  To hear the sudden sweetness of the sound

  Ring, but ere well his heart had time to bound

  His cheek would change, and grief bowed down his head,

  “Haply,” the girl’s heart, though she spake not, said,

  “This name of mine was worn of one long dead,

  Some sister that he loved: “and therewithal

  Would pity bring her heart more deep in thrall.

  But once, when winds about the world made mirth,

  And March held revel hard on April’s birth

  Till air and sea were jubilant as earth,

  Delight and doubt in sense and soul began,

  And yearning of the maiden toward the man,

  Harping on high before her: for his word

  Was fire that kindled in her heart that heard,

  And alway through the rhymes reverberate came

  The virginal soft burden of her name.

  And ere the full song failed upon her ear

  Joy strove within her till it cast out fear,

  And all her heart was as his harp, and rang

  Swift music, made of hope whose birthnote sprang

  Bright in the blood that kindled as he sang.

  ”Stars know not how we call them, nor may flowers

  Know by what happy name the hovering hours

  Baptize their new-born heads with dew and flame:

  And Love, adored of all time as of ours,

  Iseult, knew nought for ages of his name.

  ”With many tongues men called on him, but he

  Wist not which word of all might worthiest be

  To sound for ever in his ear the same,

  Till heart of man might hear and soul might see,

  Iseult, the radiance ringing from thy name.

  ”By many names men called him, as the night

  By many a name calls many a starry light,

  Her several sovereigns of dividual fame;

  But day by one name only calls aright,

  Iseult, the sun that bids men praise his name.

  ”In many a name of man his name soared high

  And song shone round it soaring, till the sky

  Rang rapture, and the world’s fast-founded frame

  Trembled with sense of triumph, even as I,

  Iseult, with sense of worship at thy name.

  ”In many a name of woman smiled his power

  Incarnate, as all summer in a flower,

  Till winter bring forgetfulness or shame:

  But thine, the keystone of his topless tower,<
br />
  Iseult, is one with Love’s own lordliest name.

  ”Iseult my love, Iseult my queen twice crowned,

  In thee my death, in thee my life lies bound:

  Names are there yet that all men’s hearts acclaim,

  But Love’s own heart rings answer to the sound,

  Iseult, that bids it bow before thy name.”

  There ceased his voice yearning upon the word

  Struck with strong passion dumb: but she that heard

  Quailed to the heart, and trembled ere her eyes

  Durst let the loving light within them rise,

  And yearn on his for answer: yet at last,

  Albeit not all her fear was overpast,

  Hope, kindling even the frost of fear apace

  With sweet fleet bloom and breath of gradual grace,

  Flushed in the changing roses of her face.

  And ere the strife took truce of white with red,

  Or joy for soft shame’s sake durst lift up head,

  Something she would and would not fain have said,

  And wist not what the fluttering word would be,

  But rose and reached forth to him her hand: and he,

  Heart-stricken, bowed his head and dropped his knee,

  And on her fragrant hand his lips were fire;

  And their two hearts were as one trembling lyre

  Touched by the keen wind’s kiss with brief desire

  And music shuddering at its own delight.

  So dawned the moonrise of their marriage night.

  THE MAIDEN MARRIAGE

  Spring watched her last moon burn and fade with May

  While the days deepened toward a bridal day.

  And on her snowbright hand the ring was set

  While in the maiden’s ear the song’s word yet

  Hovered, that hailed as love’s own queen by name

  Iseult: and in her heart the word was flame;

  A pulse of light, a breath of tender fire,

  Too dear for doubt, too driftless for desire.

  Between her father’s hand and brother’s led

  From hall to shrine, from shrine to marriage-bed,

  She saw not how by hap at home-coming

  Fell from her new lord’s hand a royal ring,

  Whereon he looked, and felt the pulse astart

  Speak passion in his faith-forsaken heart.

  For this was given him of the hand wherein

  That heart’s pledge lay for ever: so the sin

  That should be done if truly he should take

  This maid to wife for strange love’s faithless sake

  Struck all his mounting spirit abashed, and fear

  Fell cold for shame’s sake on his changing cheer.

  Yea, shame’s own fire that burned upon his brow