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

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  Darkness for light and hate where love should be,

  None for my shame’s sake may speak shame of thee.”

  And Tristram answering ere he kissed her smiled:

  “O very woman, god at once and child,

  What ails thee to desire of me once more

  The assurance that thou hadst in heart before?

  For all this wild sweet waste of sweet vain breath,

  Thou knowest I know thou has given me life, not death.

  The shadow of death, informed with shows of strife,

  Was ere I won thee all I had of life.

  Light war, light love, light living, dreams in sleep,

  Joy slight and light, not glad enough to weep,

  Filled up my foolish days with sound and shine,

  Vision and gleam from strange men’s cast on mine,

  Reverberate light from eyes presaging thine

  That shed but shadowy moonlight where thy face

  Now sheds forth sunshine in the deep same place,

  The deep live heart half dead and shallower then

  Than summer fords which thwart not wandering men.

  For how should I, signed sorrow’s from my birth,

  Kiss dumb the loud red laughing lips of mirth?

  Or how, sealed thine to be, love less than heaven on earth?

  My heart in me was held at restless rest,

  Presageful of some prize beyond its quest,

  Prophetic still with promise, fain to find the best.

  For one was fond and one was blithe and one

  Fairer than all save twain whose peers are none;

  For third on earth is none that heaven hath seen

  To stand with Guenevere beside my queen.

  Not Nimue, girt with blessing as a guard:

  Not the soft lures and laughters of Ettarde:

  Not she, that splendour girdled round with gloom,

  Crowned as with iron darkness of the tomb,

  And clothed with clouding conscience of a monstrous doom,

  Whose blind incestuous love brought forth a fire

  To burn her ere it burn its darkling sire,

  Her mother’s son, King Arthur: yet but late

  We saw pass by that fair live shadow of fate,

  The queen Morgause of Orkney, like a dream

  That scares the night when moon and starry beam

  Sicken and swoon before some sorcerer’s eyes

  Whose wordless charms defile the saintly skies,

  Bright still with fire and pulse of blood and breath,

  Whom her own sons have doomed for shame to death.”

  ”Death — yea,” quoth she, “there is not said or heard

  So oft aloud on earth so sure a word.

  Death, and again death, and for each that saith

  Ten tongues chime answer to the sound of death.

  Good end God send us ever — so men pray.

  But I — this end God send me, would I say,

  To die not of division and a heart

  Rent or with sword of severance cloven apart,

  But only when thou diest and only where thou art,

  O thou my soul and spirit and breath to me,

  O light, life, love! yea, let this only be,

  That dying I may praise God who gave me thee,

  Let hap what will thereafter.”

  So that day

  They communed, even till even was worn away,

  Nor aught they said seemed strange or sad to say,

  But sweet as night’s dim dawn to weariness.

  Nor loved they life or love for death’s sake less,

  Nor feared they death for love’s or life’s sake more

  And on the sounding soft funereal shore

  They, watching till the day should wholly die,

  Saw the far sea sweep to the far grey sky,

  Saw the long sands sweep to the long grey sea.

  And night made one sweet mist of moor and lea,

  And only far off shore the foam gave light.

  And life in them sank silent as the night.

  THE WIFE’S VIGIL

  But all that year in Brittany forlorn,

  More sick at heart with wrath than fear of scorn

  And less in love with love than grief, and less

  With grief than pride of spirit and bitterness,

  Till all the sweet life of her blood was changed

  And all her soul from all her past estranged

  And all her will with all itself at strife

  And all her mind at war with all her life,

  Dwelt the white-handed Iseult, maid and wife,

  A mourner that for mourning robes had on

  Anger and doubt and hate of things foregone.

  For that sweet spirit of old which made her sweet

  Was parched with blasts of thought as flowers with heat

  And withered as with wind of evil will;

  Though slower than frosts or fires consume or kill

  That bleak black wind vexed all her spirit still.

  As ripples reddening in the roughening breath

  Of the eager east when dawn does night to death,

  So rose and stirred and kindled in her thought

  Fierce barren fluctuant fires that lit not aught,

  But scorched her soul with yearning keen as hate

  And dreams that left her wrath disconsolate.

  When change came first on that first heaven where all

  Life’s hours were flowers that dawn’s light hand let fall,

  The sun that smote her dewy cloud of days

  Wrought from its showery folds his rainbow’s rays,

  For love the red, for hope the gentle green,

  But yellow jealously glared pale between.

  Ere yet the sky grew heavier, and her head

  Bent flowerwise, chill with change and fancies fled,

  She saw but love arch all her heaven across with red,

  A burning bloom that seemed to breathe and beat

  And waver only as flame with rapturous heat

  Wavers; and all the world therewith smelt sweet,

  As incense kindling from the rose-red flame:

  And when that full flush waned, and love became

  Scarce fainter, though his fading horoscope

  From certitude of sight receded, hope

  Held yet her April-coloured light aloft

  As though to lure back love, a lamp sublime and soft.

  But soon that light paled as a leaf grows pale

  And fluttered leaf-like in the gathering gale

  And melted even as dew-flakes, whose brief sheen

  The sun that gave despoils of glittering green;

  Till harder shone ‘twixt hope and love grown cold

  A sallow light like withering autumn’s gold,

  The pale strong flame of jealous thought, that glows

  More deep than hope’s green bloom or love’s enkindled rose:

  As though the sunflower’s faint fierce disk absorbed

  The spirit and heart of starrier flowers disorbed.

  That same full hour of twilight’s doors unbarred

  To let bright night behold in Joyous Gard

  The glad grave eyes of lovers far away

  Watch with sweet thoughts of death the death of day

  Saw lonelier by the narrower opening sea

  Sit fixed at watch Iseult of Brittany.

  As darkness from deep valleys void and bleak

  Climbs till it clothe with night the sunniest peak

  Where only of all a mystic mountain-land

  Day seems to cling yet with a trembling hand

  And yielding heart reluctant to recede,

  So, till her soul was clothed with night indeed,

  Rose the slow cloud of envious will within

  And hardening hate that held itself no sin,

  Veiled heads of vision, eyes of evil gleam,

  Dim thought on thought, and darkling dream
on dream.

  Far off she saw in spirit, and seeing abhorred,

  The likeness wrought on darkness of her lord

  Shine, and the imperial semblance at his side

  Whose shadow from her seat cast down the bride,

  Whose power and ghostly presence thrust her forth:

  Beside that unknown other sea far north

  She saw them, clearer than in present sight

  Rose on her eyes the starry shadow of night;

  And on her heart that heaved with gathering fate

  Rose red with storm the starless shadow of hate;

  And eyes and heart made one saw surge and swell

  The fires of sunset like the fires of hell.

  As though God’s wrath would burn up sin with shame,

  The incensed red gold of deepening heaven grew flame:

  The sweet green spaces of the soft low sky

  Faded, as fields that withering wind leaves dry:

  The sea’s was like a doomsman’s blasting breath

  From lips afoam with ravenous lust of death.

  A night like desolation, sombre-starred,

  Above the great walled girth of Joyous Gard

  Spread forth its wide sad strength of shadow and gloom

  Wherein those twain were compassed round with doom:

  Hell from beneath called on them, and she heard

  Reverberate judgment in the wild wind’s word

  Cry, till the sole sound of their names that rang

  Clove all the sea-mist with a clarion’s clang,

  And clouds to clouds and flames to clustering flame.

  Beat back the dark noise of the direful names.

  Fear and strong exultation caught her breath,

  And triumph like the bitterness of death,

  And rapture like the rage of hate allayed

  With ruin and ravin that its might hath made;

  And her heart swelled and strained itself to hear

  What may be heard of no man’s hungering ear,

  And as a soil that cleaves in twain for drought

  Thirsted for judgment given of God’s own mouth

  Against them, till the strength of dark desire

  Was in her as a flame of hell’s own fire.

  Nor seemed the wrath which held her spirit in stress

  Aught else or worse than passionate holiness,

  Nor the ardent hate which called on judgment’s rod

  More hateful than the righteousness of God.

  ”How long, till thou do justice, and my wrong

  Stand expiate? O long-suffering judge, how long?

  Shalt thou not put him in mine hand one day

  Whom I so loved, to spare not but to slay?

  Shalt thou not cast her down for me to tread,

  Me, on the pale pride of her humbled head?

  Do I not well, being angry? doth not hell

  Require them? yea, thou knowest that I do well.

  Is not thy seal there set of bloodred light

  For witness on the brows of day and night?

  Who shall unseal it? what shall melt away

  Thy signet from the doors of night and day?

  No man, nor strength of any spirit above,

  Nor prayer, nor ardours of adulterous love.

  Thou art God, the strong lord over body and soul:

  Hast thou not in the terrors of thy scroll

  All names of all men written as with fire?

  Thine only breath bids time and space respire:

  And are not all things evil in them done

  More clear in thine eyes than in ours the sun?

  Hast thou not sight stretched wide enough to see

  These that offend it, these at once and me?

  Is thine arm shortened or thine hand struck down

  As palsied? have thy brows not strength to frown?

  Are thine eyes blind with film of withering age?

  Burns not thine heart with righteousness of rage

  Yet, and the royal rancour toward thy foes

  Retributive of ruin? Time should close,

  Thou said’st, and earth fade as a leaf grows grey,

  Was this then not thy word, thou God most high,

  That sin shall surely bring forth death and die,

  Seeing how these twain live and have joy of life,

  His harlot and the man that made me wife?

  For is it I, perchance, I that have sinned?

  Me, peradventure, should thy wasting wind

  Smite, and thy sun blast, and thy storms devour

  Me with keen fangs of lightning? should thy power

  Put forth on me the weight of its awakening hour?

  Shall I that bear this burden bear that weight

  Of judgment? is my sin against thee great,

  If all my heart against them burn with all its hate?

  Thine, and not mine, should hate be? nay, but me

  They have spoiled and scoffed at, who can touch not thee.

  Me, me, the fullness of their joy drains dry,

  Their fruitfulness makes barren: thou, not I,

  Lord, is it, whom their wrongdoing clothes with shame

  That all who speak shoot tongues out at thy name

  As all who hear mock mine? Make me thy sword

  At least, if even thou too be wronged, O Lord,

  At all of these that wrong me: make mine hand

  As lightning, or my tongue a fiery brand,

  To burn or smite them with thy wrath: behold,

  I have nought on earth save thee for hope or hold,

  Fair me not thou: I have nought but this to crave,

  Make me thy mean to give them to the grave,

  Thy sign that all men seeing may speak thee just,

  Thy word which turns the strengths of sin to dust,

  Thy blast which burns up towers and thrones with fire.

  Lord, is this gift, this grace that I require,

  So great a gift, Lord, for thy grace to give

  And bid me bear thy part retributive?

  That I whom scorn makes mouths at, I might be

  Thy witness if loud sin may mock at thee?

  For lo, my life is as a barren ear

  Plucked from the sheaf: dark days drive past me here

  Downtrodden, while joy’s reapers pile their sheaves,

  A thing more vile than autumn’s weariest leaves,

  For these the sun filled once with sap of life.

  O thou my lord that hadst me to thy wife,

  Dost thou not fear at all, remembering me,

  The love that bowed my whole soul down to thee?

  Is this so wholly nought for man to dread,

  Man, whose life walks between the quick and dead,

  Naked, and warred about with wind and sea,

  That one should love and hate as I do thee?

  That one should live in all the world his foe

  So mortal as the hate that loves him so?

  Nought, is it nought, O husband, O my knight,

  O strong man and indomitable in fight,

  That one more weak than foam-bells on the sea

  Should have in heart such thoughts as I of thee?

  Thou art bound about with stately strengths for bands:

  What strength shall keep thee from my strengthless hands?

  Thou art girt about with goodly guards and great:

  What fosse may fence thee round as deep as hate?

  Thou art wise: will wisdom teach thee fear of me?

  Thou art great of heart: shall this deliver thee?

  What wall so massive, or what tower so high

  Shall be thy surety that thou shouldst not die,

  If that which comes against thee be but I?

  Who shall rise up of power to take thy part,

  What skill find strength to save, what strength find art,

  If that which wars against thee be my heart?

  Not iron, nor the might of force afield,

 
; Nor edge of sword, nor sheltering weight of shield,

  Nor all the love and laud thou hast of man,

  Nor, though his noiseless hours with wool be shod,

  Shall God’s love keep thee from the wrath of God.

  O son of sorrows, hast thou said at heart,

  Haply, God loves thee, God shall take thy part,

  Who hath all these years endured thee, since thy birth

  From sorrow’s womb bade sin be born on earth?

  So long he hath cast his buckler over thee,

  Shall he not surely guard thee even from me?

  Yea, but if yet he give thee while I live

  Into mine hands as he shall surely give,

  Ere death at last bring darkness on thy face,

  Call then on him, call not on me for grace,

  Cast not away one prayer, one suppliant breath,

  On me that was commune all this while with death.

  For I that was not and that was thy wife

  Desire not but one hour of all thy life

  Wherein to triumph till that hour be past;

  But this mine hour I look for is thy last.”

  So mused she till the fire in sea and sky

  Sank, and the northwest wind spake harsh on high,

  And like the sea’s heart waxed her heart that heard,

  Strong, dark, and bitter, till the keen wind’s word

  Seemed of her own soul spoken, and the breath

  All round her not of darkness, but of death.

  THE LAST PILGRIMAGE

  Enough of ease, O Love, enough of light,

  Enough of rest before the shadow of night.

  Strong Love, whom death finds feebler; kingly Love,

  Whom time discrowns in season, seeing thy dove

  Spell-stricken by the serpent; for thy sake

  These that saw light see night’s dawn only break,

  Night’s cup filled up with slumber, whence men think

  The draught more dread than thine was dire to drink.

  O Love, thy day sets darkling: hope and fear

  Fall from thee standing stern as death stands here.

  For what have these to do with fear or hope

  On whom the gates of outer darkness ope,

  One whom the door of life’s desire is barred?

  Past like a cloud, their days in Joyous Gard

  Gleam like a cloud the westering sun stains red

  Till all the blood of day’s blithe heart be bled

  And all night’s heart requickened; in their eyes

  So flame and fade those far memorial skies,

  So shines the moorland, so revives the sea,

  Wheron they gazing mused of things to be

  And wist not more of them than waters know

  What wind with next day’s change of tide shall blow.