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

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  And sword at last or dart that strikes it dead,

  Fate, higher than heaven and deeper than the grave,

  That saves and spares not, spares and doth not save;

  Fate, that in gods’wise is not bought and sold

  For prayer or price of penitence or gold;

  Whose law shall live when life bids earth farewell,

  Whose justice hath for shadows heaven and hell

  Whose judgment into no god’s hand is given,

  Nor is its doom not more than hell or heaven:

  Fate, that is pure of love and clean of hate,

  Being equal-eyed as nought may be but fate;

  Through many and weary days of foiled desire

  Leads life to rest where tears no more take fire;

  Through many and weary dreams of quenched delight

  Leads life through death past sense of day and night.

  Nor shall they feel or fear, whose date is done,

  Aught that made once more dark the living sun

  And bitterer in their breathing lips the breath

  Than the dark dawn and bitter dust of death.

  For all the light, with fragrance as of flowers,

  That clothes the lithe live limbs of separate hours,

  More sweet to savour and more clear to sight

  Dawns on the soul death’s undivided night.

  No vigils has that perfect night to keep,

  No fever-fits of vision shake that sleep.

  Nor if they wake, and any place there be

  Wherein the soul may feel her wings beat free

  Through air too clear and still for sound or strife

  If life were haply death, and death be life;

  If love with yet some lovelier laugh revive,

  And song relume the light it bore alive,

  And friendship, found of all earth’s gifts most good,

  If aught indeed at all of all this be,

  Though none might say nor any man might see,

  Might he that sees the shade thereof not say

  This dream were trustier than the truth of day.

  Nor haply may not hope, with heart more clear,

  Burn deathward, and the doubtful soul take cheer,

  Seeing through the channelled darkness yearn a star

  Whose eyebeams are not as the morning’s are,

  Transient, and subjugate of lordlier light,

  But all unconquerable by noon or night,

  Being kindled only of life’s own inmost fire,

  Truth, stablished and made sure by strong desire

  Fountain of all things living, source and seed,

  Force that perforce transfigures dream to deed

  God that begets on time, the body of death,

  Eternity: nor may man’s darkening breath,

  Albeit it stain, disfigure or destroy

  The glass wherein the soul sees life and joy

  Only, with strength renewed and spirit of youth,

  And brighter than the sun’s the body of Truth

  Eternal, unimaginable of man,

  Whose very face not Thought’s own eyes may scan,

  But see far off his radiant feet at least,

  Trampling the head of Fear, the false high priest,

  Whose broken chalice foams with blood no more,

  And prostrate on that high priest’s chancel floor,

  Bruised, overthrown, blind, maimed, with bloodless rod,

  The miscreation of his miscreant God.

  That sovereign shadow cast of souls that dwell

  In darkness and the prison-house of hell

  Whose walls are built of deadly dread, and bound

  The gates thereof with dreams as iron round,

  And all the bars therin and stanchions wrought

  Of shadow forged like steel and tempered thought

  And words like swords and thunder-clouded creeds

  And faiths more dire than sin’s most direful deeds:

  That shade accursed and worshipped, which hath made

  The soul of man that brought it forth a shade

  Black as the womb of darkness, void and vain,

  A throne for fear, a pasturage for pain,

  Impotent, abject, clothed upon with lies,

  A foul blind fume of words and prayers that rise,

  Aghast and harsh, abhorrent and abhorred,

  Fierce as its God, blood-saturate as its Lord;

  With loves and mercies on its lips that hiss

  Comfort, and kill compassion with a kiss,

  And strike the world black with their blasting breath;

  That ghost whose core of life is very death

  And all its light of heaven a shadow of hell,

  Fades, falls, wanes, withers by none other spell

  But theirs whose eyes and ears have seen and heard

  Not the face naked, not the perfect word,

  But the bright sound and feature felt from far

  Of life which feeds the spirit and the star,

  Thrills the live light of all the suns that roll,

  And stirs the still sealed springs of every soul.

  Three dim days through, three slumberless nights long,

  Perplexed at dawn, oppressed at evensong,

  The strong man’s soul now sealed indeed with pain

  And all its springs half dried with drought, had lain

  Prisoner within the fleshly dungeon-dress

  Sore chafed and wasted with its weariness.

  And fain it would have found the star, and fain

  Made this funereal prison-house of pain

  A watch-tower whence its eyes might sweep, and see

  If any place for any hope might be

  Beyond the hells and heavens of sleep and strife,

  Or any light at all of any life

  Beyond the dense false darkness woven above,

  And could not, lacking grace to look on love,

  And in the third night’s dying hour he spake,

  Seeing scarce the seals that bound the dayspring break

  And scarce the daystar burn above the sea:

  “O Ganhardine, my brother true to me,

  I charge thee by those nights and days we knew

  No great while since in England, by the dew

  That bathed those nights with blessing, and the fire

  That thrilled those days as music thrills a lyre,

  Do now for me perchance the last good deed

  That ever love may crave or life may need

  Ere love lay life in ashes: take to thee

  My ship that shows aloft against the sea

  Carved on her stem the semblance of a swan,

  And ere the waves at even again wax wan

  Pass, if it may be, to my lady’s land,

  And give this ring into her secret hand,

  And bid her think how hard on death I lie,

  And fain would look upon her face and die.

  But as a merchant’s laden be the bark

  With royal ware for fraughtage, that King Mark

  May take for toll thereof some costly thing;

  And when this gift finds grace before the king,

  Choose forth a cup, and put therein my ring

  Where sureliest only of one it may be seen,

  And bid her handmaid bear it to the queen

  For earnest of thine homage: then shall she

  Fear, and take counsel privily with thee,

  To know what errand there is thine from me

  And what my need in secret of her sight.

  But make thee two sails, one like sea-foam white

  To spread for signal if thou bring her back,

  And if she come not see the sail be black,

  That I may know or ever thou take land

  If these my lips may die upon her hand

  Or hers may never more be mixed with mine.”

  And his heart quailed for grief in Ganhardine,

  Hearing; and all his br
other bade he swore

  Surely to do, and straight fare forth from shore.

  But the white-handed Iseult hearkening heard

  All, and her heart waxed hot, and every world

  Thereon seemed graven and printed in her thought

  As lines with fire and molten iron wrought.

  And hard within her heavy heart she cursed

  Both, and her life was turned to fiery thirst,

  And all her soul was hunger, and its breath

  Of hope and life a blast of raging death.

  For only in hope of evil was her life.

  So bitter burned within the unchilded wife

  A virgin lust for vengeance, and such hate

  Wrought in her now the fervent work of fate.

  Then with a south-west wind the Swan set forth

  And over wintering waters bore to north,

  And round the wild land’s windy westward end

  Up the blown channel bade her bright way bend

  East on toward high Tintagel: where at dark

  Landing, fair welcome found they of King Mark,

  And Ganhardine with Brangwain as of old

  Spake, and she took the cup of chiselled gold

  Wherein lay secret Tristram’s trothplight ring,

  And bare it unbeholden of the king

  Even to her lady’s hand, which hardly took

  A gift whereon a queen’s eyes well might look,

  With grace forlorn of weary gentleness.

  But, seeing, her life leapt in her, keen to guess

  The secret of the symbol: and her face

  Flushed bright with blood whence all its grief-worn grace

  Took fire and kindled to the quivering hair.

  And in the dark soft hour of starriest air

  Thrilled through with sense of midnight, when the world

  Feels the wide wings of sleep about it furled,

  Down stole the queen, deep-muffled to her war

  Mute restless lips, and came where yet the Swan

  Swung fast at anchor: whence by starlight she

  Hoised snowbright sails, and took the glimmering sea.

  But all the long night long more keen and sore

  His wound’s grief waxed in Tristram evermore,

  And heavier always hung his heart asway

  Between dim fear and clouded hope of day.

  And still with face and heart at silent strife

  Beside him watched the maiden called his wife,

  Patient, and spake not save when scarce he spake,

  Murmuring with sense distraught and spirit awake

  Speech bitterer than the words thereof were sweet:

  And hatred thrilled her to the hands and feet,

  Listening: for alway back reiterate came

  The passionate faint burden of her name.

  Nor ever through the labouring lips astir

  Came any word of any thought of her.

  But the soul wandering struggled and clung hard

  Only to dreams of joy in Joyous Gard

  Or wildwood nights beside the Cornish strand,

  Or Merlin’s holier sleep here hard at hand

  Wrapped round with deep soft spells in dim Broceliande.

  And with such thirst as joy’s drained wine-cup leaves

  When fear to hope as hope to memory cleaves

  His soul desired the dewy sense of leaves,

  The soft green smell of thickets drenched with dawn.

  The faint slot kindling on the fiery lawn

  As day’s first hour made keen the spirit again

  That lured and spurred on quest his hound Hodain,

  The breeze, the bloom, the splendour and the sound,

  That stung like fire the hunter and the hound.

  The pulse of wind, the passion of the sea,

  The rapture of the woodland: then would he

  Sigh, and as one that fain would all be dead

  Heavily turn his heavy-laden head

  Back, and close eyes for comfort, finding none.

  And fain he would have died or seen the sun,

  Being sick at heart of darkness: yet afresh

  Began the long strong strife of spirit and flesh

  And branching pangs of thought whose branches bear

  The bloodred fruit whose core is black, despair.

  And the wind slackened and again grew great,

  Palpitant as men’s pulses palpitate

  Between the flowing and ebbing tides of fate

  That wash their lifelong waifs of weal and woe

  Through night and light and twilight to and fro

  Now as a pulse of hope its heartbeat throbbed,

  Now like one stricken shrank and sank and sobbed,

  Then, yearning as with child of death, put forth

  A wail that filled the night up south and north

  With woful sound of waters: and he said,

  “So might the wind wail if the world were dead

  And its wings wandered over nought but sea.

  I would I knew she would not come to me,

  For surely she will come not: then should I,

  Once knowing I shall not look upon her, die.

  I knew not life could so long breathe such breath

  As I do. Nay, what grief were this, if death,

  The sole sure friend of whom the whole world saith

  He lies not, nor hath ever this been said,

  That death would heal not grief — if death were dead

  And all ways closed whence grief might pass with life!”

  Then softly spake his watching virgin wife

  Out of her heart, deep down below her breath:

  “Fear not but death shall come — and after death

  Judgment.” And he that heard not answered her

  Saying — Ah, but one there was, if truth not err,

  For true men’s trustful tongues have said it — one

  Whom these mine eyes knew living while the sun

  Looked yet upon him, and mine own ears heard

  The deep sweet sound once of his godlike word —

  Who sleeps and dies not, but with soft live breath

  Takes always all the deep delight of death,

  Through love’s gift of a woman: but for me

  Love’s hand is not the hand of Nimue,

  Love’s word no still smooth murmur of the dove,

  No kiss of peace for me the kiss of love.

  Nor, whatsoe’er thy life’s love ever give,

  Dear, shall it ever bid me sleep or live;

  Nor from thy brows and lips and living breast

  As from his Nimue’s shall my soul take rest;

  Not rest but unrest hath our long love given —

  Unrest on earth that wins not rest in heaven.

  What rest may we take ever? what have we

  Had ever more of peace than has the sea?

  Has not our life been as a wind that blows

  Through lonelier lands than rear the wild white rose

  That each year sees requickened, but for us

  Time once and twice hath here or there done thus

  And left the next year following empty and bare?

  What rose hath our last year’s rose left for heir,

  What wine our last year’s vintage? and to me

  More were one fleet forbidden sense of thee,

  One perfume of thy present grace, one thought

  Made truth one hour, ere all mine hours be nought,

  One very word, breath, look, sign, touch of hand,

  Than all the green leaves in Broceliande

  Full of sweet sound, full of sweet wind and sun;

  O God, thou knowest I would no more but one,

  I would no more but once more ere I die

  Find thus much mercy. Nay, but then were I

  Happier than he whom there thy grace hath found,

  For thine it must be, this that wraps him round,

  Thine only, albeit a
fiend’s force gave him birth,

  Thine that has given him heritage on earth

  Of slumber-sweet eternity to keep

  Fast in soft hold of everliving sleep.

  Happier were I, more sinful man, than he,

  Whom one love-worthier then than Nimue

  Should with a breath make blest among the dead.”

  And the wan wedded maiden answering said,

  Soft as hate speaks within itself apart:

  “Surely ye shall not, ye that rent mine heart,

  Being one in sin, in punishment be twain.”

  And the great knight that heard not spake again

  And sighed, but sweet thought of sweet things gone by

  Kindled with fire of joy the very sight

  And touched it through with rapture: “Ay, this were

  How much more than the sun and sunbright air,

  How much more than the springtide, how much more

  Than sweet strong sea-wind quickening wave and shore

  With one divine pulse of continuous breath,

  If she might kiss me with the kiss of death,

  And make the light of life by death’s look dim!”

  And the white wedded virgin answered him,

  Inwardly, wan with hurt no herb makes whole:

  “Yea, surely, ye whose sin hath slain my soul,

  Surely your own souls shall have peace in death

  And pass with benediction into their breath

  And blessing given of mine their sin hath slain.”

  And Tristram with sore yearning spake again,

  Saying: “Yea, might this thing once be, how should I,

  With all my soul made one thanksgiving, die,

  And pass before what judgment-seat may be,

  And cry, ‘Lord, now do all thou wilt with me,

  Take all thy fill of justice, work thy will;

  Though all thy heart of wrath have all its fill,

  My heart of suffering shall endure, and say,

  For thou that gavest me living yesterday

  I bless thee though thou curse me.’ Ay, and well

  Might one cast down into the gulf of hell,

  Remembering this, take heart and thank his fate —

  Once, in the wild and whirling world above,

  Bade mercy kiss his dying lips with love.

  But if this come not, then he doth me wrong.

  For what hath love done, all this long life long

  That death should trample down his poor last prayer

  Who prays not for forgiveness? Though love were

  Sin dark as hate, have we not here that sinned

  Suffered? has that been less than wintry wind

  Wherewith our love lies blasted? O mine own,

  O mine and no man’s yet save mine alone,

  Iseult! what ails thee that I lack so long

  All of thee, all things thine for which I long?

  For more than watersprings to shadeless sands,