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

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  Thee as I lose thee, and his fair soul refuse

  For my sake thy fair heaven, and as I fell

  Fall, and be mixed with my soul and with hell.

  Let me die rather, and only; let me be

  Hated of him so he be loved of thee,

  Lord: for I would not have him with me there

  Out of thy light and love in the unlit air,

  Out of thy sight in the unseen hell where I

  Go gladly, going alone, so thou on high

  Lift up his soul and love him — Ah, Lord, Lord,

  Shalt thou love as I love him? she that poured

  From the alabaster broken at thy feet

  An ointment very precious, not so sweet

  As that poured likewise forth before thee then

  From the rehallowed heart of Magdalen,

  From a heart broken, yearning like the dove,

  An ointment very precious which is love —

  Couldst thou being holy and God, and sinful she,

  Love her indeed as surely she loved thee?

  Nay, but if not, then as we sinners can

  Let us love still in the old sad wise of man.

  For with less love than my love, having had

  Mine, though God love him he shall not be glad

  And with such love as my love, I wot well,

  She shall not lie disconsolate in hell:

  Sad only as souls for utter love’s sake be

  Here, and a little sad, perchance, for me —

  Me happy, me more glad than God above,

  In the utmost hell whose fires consume not love!

  For in the waste ways emptied of the sun

  He would say— ‘Dear, thy place is void, and one

  Weeps among angels for thee, with his face

  Veiled, saying, O sister, how thy chosen place

  Stands desolate, that God made fair for thee!

  Is heaven not sweeter, and we thy brethren, we

  Fairer than love on earth and life in hell?’

  And I — with me were all things then not well?

  Should I not answer— ‘O love, be well content;

  Look on me, and behold if I repent.’

  This were more to me than an angel’s wings.

  Yea, many men pray God for many things,

  But I pray that this only thing may be.”

  And as a full field charging was the sea,

  And as the cry of slain men was the wind.

  ”Yea, since I surely loved him, and he sinned

  Surely, though not as my sin his be black,

  God, give him to me — God, God, give him back!

  For now how should we live in twain or die?

  I am he indeed, thou knowest, and he is I.

  Not man and woman several as we were,

  But one thing with one life and death to bear.

  How should one love his own soul overmuch?

  And time is long since last I felt the touch,

  The sweet touch of my lover, hand and breath,

  In such delight as puts delight to death,

  Burn my soul through, till the spirit and soul and sense,

  In the sharp grasp of the hour, with violence

  Died, and again through pangs of violent birth

  Lived, and laughed out with refluent might of mirth;

  Laughed each on other and shuddered into one,

  As a cloud shuddering dies into the sun.

  Ah, sense is that or spirit, soul or flesh,

  That only love lulls or awakes afresh?

  Ah, sweet is that or bitter, evil or good,

  That very love allays not as he would?

  Nay, truth is this or vanity, that gives

  No love assurance when love dies or lives?

  This that my spirit is wrung withal, and yet

  No surelier knows if haply thine forget,

  Thou that my spirit is wrung for, nor can say

  Love is not in thee dead as yesterday?

  Dost thou feel, thou, this heartbeat whence my heart

  Would send thee word what life is mine apart,

  And know by keen response what life is thine?

  Dost thou not hear one cry of all of mine?

  O Tristram’s heart, have I no part in thee?”

  And all her soul was as the breaking sea,

  And all her heart anhungered as the wind.

  ”Dost thou repent thee of the sin we sinned?

  Dost thou repent thee of the days and nights

  That kindled and that quenched for us their lights,

  The months that feasted us with all their hours,

  The ways that breathed of us in all their flowers,

  The dells that sang of us with all their doves?

  Dost thou repent thee of the wildwood loves?

  Is thine heart chanted, and hallowed? art thou grown

  God’s, and not mine? Yet, though my heart make moan,

  Fain would my soul give thanks for thine, if thou

  Be saved — yea, fain praise God, and knows not how.

  How should it know thanksgiving? nay, or learn

  Aught of the love wherewith thine own should burn,

  God’s that should cast out as an evil thing

  Mine? yea, what hand or prayer have I to cling,

  What heart to prophesy, what spirit of sight

  To strain insensual eyes towards increate light,

  Who look but back on life wherein I sinned?”

  And all their past came wailing in the wind,

  And all their future thundered in the sea.

  ”But if my soul might touch the time to be,

  If hand might handle now or eye behold

  My life and death ordained me from of old,

  Life palpable, compact of blood and breath,

  Visible, present, naked, very death,

  Should I desire to know before the day

  These that I know not, nor is man that may?

  For haply, seeing, my heart would break for fear,

  And my soul timeless cast its load off here,

  Its load of life too bitter, love too sweet,

  And fall down shamed and naked at thy feet,

  God, who wouldst take no pity of it, nor give

  One hour back, one of all its hours to live

  Clothed with my mortal body, that once more,

  Once, on this reach of barren beaten shore,

  This stormy strand of life, ere sail were set,

  Had haply felt love’s arms about it yet —

  Yea, ere death’s bark put off to seaward, might

  With many a grief have bought me one delight

  That then should know me never. Ah, what years

  Would I endure not, filled up full with tears,

  Bitter like blood and dark as dread of death,

  To win one amorous hour of mingling breath,

  One fire-eyed hour and sunnier than the sun,

  For all these days and nights like nights but one?

  One hour of heaven born once, a stormless birth,

  For all these windy, weary hours of earth?

  One, but one hour from birth of joy to death,

  For all these hungering hours of feverish breath?

  And I should lose this, having died and sinned.”

  And as a man’s anguish clamouring cried the wind,

  And as God’s anger answering rang the sea.

  ”And yet what life — Lord God, what life for me

  Has thy strong wrath made ready? Dost thou think

  How lips whose thirst hath only tears to drink

  Grow grey for grief untimely? Dost thou know,

  O happy God, how men wax weary of woe —

  Yea, for their wrong’s sake that thine hand hath done

  Come even to hate thy semblance in the sun?

  Turn back from dawn and noon and all thy light

  To make their souls one with the soul of night?

  Christ, if thou he
ar yet or have eyes to see,

  Thou that hadst pity, and hast no pity on me,

  Know’st thou no more, as in this life’s sharp span,

  What pain thou hadst on earth, what pain hath man?

  Hast thou no care, that all we suffer yet?

  What help is ours of thee if thou forget?

  What profit have we though thy blood were given,

  Not love but hate, thou bitter God and strange,

  Whose heart as man’s heart hath grown cold with change,

  Not love but hate thou showest us that have sinned.”

  And like a world’s cry shuddering was the wind,

  And like a God’s voice threatening was the sea.

  ”Nay, Lord, for thou wast gracious; nay, in thee

  No change can come with time or varying fate,

  No tongue bid thine be less compassionate,

  No sterner eye rebuke for mercy thine,

  No sin put out thy pity — no, not mine.

  Thou knowest us, Lord, thou knowest us, all we are,

  He, and the soul that hath his soul for star:

  Thou knowest as I know, Lord how much more worth

  Than all souls clad and clasped about with earth,

  But most of all, God, how much more than I,

  Is this man’s soul that surely shall not die.

  What righteousness, what judgment, Lord most high,

  Were this, to bend a brow of doom as grim

  As threats me, the adulterous wife, on him?

  There lies none other nightly by his side:

  He hath not sought, he shall not seek a bride.

  For as God sunders earth from heaven above,

  So far was my love born beneath his love.

  I loved him as the sea-wind loves the sea,

  To rend and ruin it only and waste: but he,

  As the sea loves a sea-bird loved he me,

  To foster and uphold my tired life’s wing,

  And bounteously beneath me spread forth spring,

  A springtide space whereon to float or fly,

  A world of happy water, whence the sky

  Glowed goodlier, lightening from so glad a glass,

  Than with its own light only. Now, alas!

  Cloud hath come down and clothed it round with storm,

  And gusts and fits of eddying winds deform

  The feature of its glory. Yet be thou,

  God, merciful: nay, show but justice now,

  And let the sin in him that scarce was his

  Stand expiated with exile: and be this

  The price for him, the atonement this, that I

  With all the sin upon me live, and die

  With all thy wrath on me that most have sinned.”

  And like man’s heart relenting sighted the wind,

  Aned as God’s wrath subsiding sank the sea.

  ”But if such grace be possible — if it be

  Not sin more strange than all sins past, and worse

  Evil, that cries upon thee for a curse,

  To pray such prayers from such a heart, do thou

  Hear, and make wide thine hearing toward me now;

  Let not my soul and his for ever dwell

  Sundered: though doom keep always heaven and hell

  Irreconcilable, infinitely apart,

  Keep not in twain for ever heart and heart

  That once, albeit by not thy law, were one;

  Let this be not thy will, that this be done.

  Let all else, all thou wilt of evil, be,

  But no doom, none, dividing him and me.”

  By this was heaven stirred eastward, and there came

  Up the rough ripple a labouring light like flame;

  And dawn, sore trembling still and grey with fear,

  Looked hardly forth, a face of heavier cheer

  Than one which grief or dread yet half enshrouds,

  Wild-eyed and wan, across the cleaving clouds.

  And Iseult, worn with watch long held on pain.

  Turned, and her eye lit on the hound Hodain,

  And all her heart went out in tears: and he

  Laid his kind head along her bended knee,

  Till round his neck her arms went hard, and all

  The night past from her as a chain might fall:

  But yet the heart within her, half undone,

  Wailed, and was loth to let her see the sun.

  And ere full day brought heaven and earth to flower,

  Far thence, a maiden in a marriage bower,

  That moment, hard by Tristram, oversea,

  Woke with glad eyes Iseult of Brittany.

  JOYOUS GARD

  A little time, O Love, a little light,

  A little hour for ease before the night.

  Sweet Love, that art so bitter; foolish Love,

  Whom wise men know for wiser, and thy dove

  More subtle than the serpent; for thy sake

  These pray thee for a little beam to break,

  A little grace to help them, lest men think

  Thy servants have but hours like tears to drink.

  O Love, a little comfort, lest they fear

  To serve as these have served thee who stand here.

  For these are thine, thy servants these, that stand

  Here nigh the limit of the wild north land,

  At margin of the grey great eastern sea,

  Dense-islanded with peaks and reefs, that see

  No life but of the fleet wings fair and free

  Which cleave the mist and sunlight all day long

  With sleepless flight and cries more glad than song.

  Strange ways of life have led them hither, here

  To win fleet respite from desire and fear

  With armistice from sorrow; strange and sweet

  Ways trodden by forlorn and casual feet

  Till kindlier chance woke toward them kindly will

  In happier hearts of lovers, and their ill

  Found rest, as healing surely might it not,

  By gift and kingly grace of Launcelot

  At gracious bidden given of Guenevere.

  For in the trembling twilight of this year

  Ere April spring from hope to certitude

  Two hearts of friends fast linked had fallen at feud

  As they rode forth on hawking, by the sign

  Which gave his new bride’s brother Ganhardine

  To know the truth of Tristram’s dealing, how

  Faith kept of him against his marriage vow

  Kept virginal his bride-bed night and morn;

  Whereat, as wroth his blood should suffer scorn,

  Came Ganhardine to Tristram, saying, “Behold,

  We have loved thee, and for love we have shown of old

  Scorn hast thou shown us: wherefore is thy bride

  Not thine indeed, a stranger at thy side,

  Contemned? what evil hath she done, to be

  Mocked with mouth-marriage and despised of thee,

  Shamed, set at nought, rejected?” But there came

  On Tristram’s brow and eye the shadow and flame

  Confused of wrath and wonder, ere he spake,

  Saying, “Hath she bid thee for thy sister’s sake

  Plead with me, who believed of her in heart

  More nobly than to deem such piteous part

  Should find so fair a player? or whence has thou

  Of us this knowledge?” “Nay,” said he, “but now,

  Riding beneath these whitethorns overhead,

  There fell a flower into her girdlestead

  Which laughing she shook out, and smiling said —

  ‘Lo, what large leave the wind hath given this stray,

  To lie more near my heart than till this day

  Aught ever since my mother lulled me lay

  Or even my lord came ever;’ whence I wot

  We are all thy scorn, a race regarded not

  Nor held as worth communion of thine own,
/>   Except in her be found some fault alone

  To blemish our alliance.” Then replied

  Tristram, “Nor blame nor scorn may touch my bride,

  Albeit unknown of love she live, and be

  Worth a man worthier than her love thought me.

  Faith only, faith withheld me, faith forbade

  The blameless grace wherewith love’s grace makes glad

  All lives linked else in wedlock; not that less

  I loved the sweet light of her loveliness,

  But that my love toward faith was more: and thou

  Albeit thine heart be keen against me now,

  Couldst thou behold my very lady, then

  No more of thee than of all other men

  Should this my faith be held a faithless fault.”

  And ere that day their hawking came to halt,

  Being sore of him entreated for a sign,

  He swore to bring his brother Ganhardine

  To sight of that strange Iseult: and thereon

  Forth soon for Carwall are these brethren gone,

  Even to that royal pleasance where the hunt

  Rang ever of old with Tristram’s horn in front

  Blithe as the queen’s horse bounded at his side:

  And first of all her dames forth pranced in pride

  That day before them, with a ringing rein

  All golden-glad, the king’s false bride Brangwain,

  The queen’s true handmaid ever: and on her

  Glancing, “Be called for all time truth-teller,

  O Tristram, of all true men’s tongues alive,”

  Quoth Ganhardine; “for may my soul so thrive

  As yet mine eye drank never sight like this.”

  “Ay?” Tristram said, “and she thou look’st on is

  So great in grace of goodliness, that thou

  Hast less thought left of wrath against me now,

  Seeing but my lady’s handmaid? Nay, behold;

  See’st thou no light more golden than of gold

  Shine where she moves in midst of all, above

  All, past all price or praise or prayer of love?

  Lo, this is she.” But as one mazed with wine

  Stood, stunned in spirit and stricken, Ganhardine,

  And gazed out hard against them: and his heart

  As with a sword was cloven, and rent apart

  As with strong fangs of fire; and scarce he spake,

  Saying how his life for even a handmaid’s sake

  Was made a flame within him. And the knight

  Bade him, being known of none that stood in sight,

  Bear to Brangwain his ring, that she unseen

  Might give in token privily to the queen

  And send swift word where under moon or sun

  They twain might yet be no more twain but one.

  And that same night, under the stars that rolled