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

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  Calm chained her, storm released her,

  And storm’s glad voice was he:

  South-wester or north-easter,

  Thy winds rejoice the sea.

  V

  A dream, a dream is it all — the season,

  The sky, the water, the wind, the shore?

  A day-born dream of divine unreason,

  A marvel moulded of sleep — no more?

  For the cloudlike wave that my limbs while cleaving

  Feel as in slumber beneath them heaving

  Soothes the sense as to slumber, leaving

  Sense of nought that was known of yore.

  A purer passion, a lordlier leisure,

  A peace more happy than lives on land,

  Fulfils with pulse of diviner pleasure

  The dreaming head and the steering hand.

  I lean my cheek to the cold grey pillow,

  The deep soft swell of the full broad billow,

  And close mine eyes for delight past measure,

  And wish the wheel of the world would stand.

  The wild-winged hour that we fain would capture

  Falls as from heaven that its light feet clomb,

  So brief, so soft, and so full the rapture

  Was felt that soothed me with sense of home.

  To sleep, to swim, and to dream, for ever —

  Such joy the vision of man saw never;

  For here too soon will a dark day sever

  The sea-bird’s wing from the sea-wave’s foam.

  A dream, and more than a dream, and dimmer

  At once and brighter than dreams that flee,

  The moment’s joy of the seaward swimmer

  Abides, remembered as truth may be.

  Not all the joy and not all the glory

  Must fade as leaves when the woods wax hoary;

  For there the downs and the sea-banks glimmer,

  And here to south of them swells the sea.

  GRACE DARLING

  Take, O star of all our seas, from not an alien hand,

  Homage paid of song bowed down before thy glory’s face,

  Thou the living light of all our lovely stormy strand,

  Thou the brave north-country’s very glory of glories, Grace.

  Loud and dark about the lighthouse rings and glares the night;

  Glares with foam-lit gloom and darkling fire of storm and spray,

  Rings with roar of winds in chase and rage of waves in flight,

  Howls and hisses as with mouths of snakes and wolves at bay.

  Scarce the cliffs of the islets, scarce the walls of Joyous Gard,

  Flash to sight between the deadlier lightnings of the sea:

  Storm is lord and master of a midnight evil-starred,

  Nor may sight or fear discern what evil stars may be.

  Dark as death and white as snow the sea-swell scowls and shines,

  Heaves and yearns and pants for prey, from ravening lip to lip,

  Strong in rage of rapturous anguish, lines on hurtling lines,

  Ranks on charging ranks, that break and rend the battling ship.

  All the night is mad and murderous: who shall front the night?

  Not the prow that labours, helpless as a storm-blown leaf,

  Where the rocks and waters, darkling depth and beetling height,

  Rage with wave on shattering wave and thundering reef on reef.

  Death is fallen upon the prisoners there of darkness, bound

  Like as thralls with links of iron fast in bonds of doom;

  How shall any way to break the bands of death be found,

  Any hand avail to pluck them from that raging tomb?

  All the night is great with child of death: no stars above

  Show them hope in heaven, no lights from shores ward help on earth.

  Is there help or hope to seaward, is there help in love,

  Hope in pity, where the ravening hounds of storm make mirth?

  Where the light but shows the naked eyeless face of Death

  Nearer, laughing dumb and grim across the loud live storm?

  Not in human heart or hand or speech of human breath,

  Surely, nor in saviours found of mortal face or form.

  Yet below the light, between the reefs, a skiff shot out

  Seems a sea-bird fain to breast and brave the strait fierce pass

  Whence the channelled roar of waters driven in raging rout,

  Pent and pressed and maddened, speaks their monstrous might and mass.

  Thunder heaves and howls about them, lightning leaps and flashes,

  Hard at hand, not high in heaven, but close between the walls

  Heaped and hollowed of the storms of old, whence reels and crashes

  All the rage of all the unbaffled wave that breaks and falls.

  Who shall thwart the madness and the gladness of it, laden

  Full with heavy fate, and joyous as the birds that whirl?

  Nought in heaven or earth, if not one mortal-moulded maiden,

  Nought if not the soul that glorifies a northland girl.

  Not the rocks that break may baffle, not the reefs that thwart

  Stay the ravenous rapture of the waves that crowd and leap;

  Scarce their flashing laughter shows the hunger of their heart,

  Scarce their lion-throated roar the wrath at heart they keep.

  Child and man and woman in the grasp of death clenched fast

  Tremble, clothed with darkness round about, and scarce draw breath,

  Scarce lift eyes up toward the light that saves not, scarce may cast

  Thought or prayer up, caught and trammelled in the snare of death.

  Not as sea-mews cling and laugh or sun their plumes and sleep

  Cling and cower the wild night’s waifs of shipwreck, blind with fear,

  Where the fierce reef scarce yields foothold that a bird might keep,

  And the clamorous darkness deadens eye and deafens ear.

  Yet beyond their helpless hearing, out of hopeless sight,

  Saviours, armed and girt upon with strength of heart, fare forth,

  Sire and daughter, hand on oar and face against the night,

  Maid and man whose names are beacons ever to the North.

  Nearer now; but all the madness of the storming surf

  Hounds and roars them back; but roars and hounds them back in vain:

  As a pleasure-skiff may graze the lake-embanking turf,

  So the boat that bears them grates the rock where-toward they strain.

  Dawn as fierce and haggard as the face of night scarce guides

  Toward the cries that rent and clove the darkness, crying for aid,

  Hours on hours, across the engorged reluctance of the tides,

  Sire and daughter, high-souled man and mightier-hearted maid.

  Not the bravest land that ever breasted war’s grim sea,

  Hurled her foes back harried on the lowlands whence they came,

  Held her own and smote her smiters down, while such durst be,

  Shining northward, shining southward, as the aurorean flame,

  Not our mother, not Northumberland, brought ever forth,

  Though no southern shore may match the sons that kiss her mouth,

  Children worthier all the birthright given of the ardent north

  Where the fire of hearts outburns the suns that fire the south.

  Even such fire was this that lit them, not from lowering skies

  Where the darkling dawn flagged, stricken in the sun’s own shrine,

  Down the gulf of storm subsiding, till their earnest eyes

  Find the relics of the ravening night that spared but nine.

  Life by life the man redeems them, head by storm-worn head,

  While the girl’s hand stays the boat whereof the waves are fain:

  Ah, but woe for one, the mother clasping fast her dead!

  Happier, had the surges slain her with her children slain.

  Back
they bear, and bring between them safe the woful nine,

  Where above the ravenous Hawkers fixed at watch for prey

  Storm and calm behold the Longstone’s towering signal shine

  Now as when that labouring night brought forth a shuddering day.

  Now as then, though like the hounds of storm against her snarling

  All the clamorous years between us storm down many a fame,

  As our sires beheld before us we behold Grace Darling

  Crowned and throned our queen, and as they hailed we hail her name.

  Nay, not ours alone, her kinsfolk born, though chiefliest ours,

  East and west and south acclaim her queen of England’s maids,

  Star more sweet than all their stars and flower than all their flowers,

  Higher in heaven and earth than star that sets or flower that fades.

  How should land or sea that nurtured her forget, or love

  Hold not fast her fame for us while aught is borne in mind?

  Land and sea beneath us, sun and moon and stars above,

  Bear the bright soul witness, seen of all but souls born blind.

  Stars and moon and sun may wax and wane, subside and rise,

  Age on age as flake on flake of showering snows be shed:

  Not till earth be sunless, not till death strike blind the skies,

  May the deathless love that waits on deathless deeds be dead.

  Years on years have withered since beside the hearth once thine

  I, too young to have seen thee, touched thy father’s hallowed hand:

  Thee and him shall all men see for ever, stars that shine

  While the sea that spared thee girds and glorifies the land.

  LOCH TORRIDON

  TO E. H.

  The dawn of night more fair than morning rose,

  Stars hurrying forth on stars, as snows on snows

  Haste when the wind and winter bid them speed.

  Vague miles of moorland road behind us lay

  Scarce traversed ere the day

  Sank, and the sun forsook us at our need,

  Belated. Where we thought to have rested, rest

  Was none; for soft Maree’s dim quivering breast,

  Bound round with gracious inland girth of green

  And fearless of the wild wave-wandering West,

  Shone shelterless for strangers; and unseen

  The goal before us lay

  Of all our blithe and strange and strenuous day.

  For when the northering road faced westward — when

  The dark sharp sudden gorge dropped seaward — then,

  Beneath the stars, between the steeps, the track

  We followed, lighted not of moon or sun,

  And plunging whither none

  Might guess, while heaven and earth were hoar and black,

  Seemed even the dim still pass whence none turns back:

  And through the twilight leftward of the way,

  And down the dark, with many a laugh and leap,

  The light blithe hill-streams shone from scaur to steep

  In glittering pride of play;

  And ever while the night grew great and deep

  We felt but saw not what the hills would keep

  Sacred awhile from sense of moon or star;

  And full and far

  Beneath us, sweet and strange as heaven may be,

  The sea.

  The very sea: no mountain-moulded lake

  Whose fluctuant shapeliness is fain to take

  Shape from the steadfast shore that rules it round,

  And only from the storms a casual sound:

  The sea, that harbours in her heart sublime

  The supreme heart of music deep as time,

  And in her spirit strong

  The spirit of all imaginable song.

  Not a whisper or lisp from the waters: the skies were not silenter.

  Peace

  Was between them; a passionless rapture of respite as soft as release.

  Not a sound, but a sense that possessed and pervaded with patient delight

  The soul and the body, clothed round with the comfort of limitless night.

  Night infinite, living, adorable, loved of the land and the sea:

  Night, mother of mercies, who saith to the spirits in prison, Be free.

  And softer than dewfall, and kindlier than starlight, and keener than wine,

  Came round us the fragrance of waters, the life of the breath of the brine.

  We saw not, we heard not, the face or the voice of the waters: we knew

  By the darkling delight of the wind as the sense of the sea in it grew,

  By the pulse of the darkness about us enkindled and quickened, that here,

  Unseen and unheard of us, surely the goal we had faith in was near.

  A silence diviner than music, a darkness diviner than light,

  Fulfilled as from heaven with a measureless comfort the measure of night.

  But never a roof for shelter

  And never a sign for guide

  Rose doubtful or visible: only

  And hardly and gladly we heard

  The soft waves whisper and welter,

  Subdued, and allured to subside,

  By the mild night’s magic: the lonely

  Sweet silence was soothed, not stirred,

  By the noiseless noise of the gleaming

  Glad ripples, that played and sighed,

  Kissed, laughed, recoiled, and relented,

  Whispered, flickered, and fled.

  No season was this for dreaming

  How oft, with a stormier tide,

  Had the wrath of the winds been vented

  On sons of the tribes long dead:

  The tribes whom time, and the changes

  Of things, and the stress of doom,

  Have erased and effaced; forgotten

  As wrecks or weeds of the shore

  In sight of the stern hill-ranges

  That hardly may change their gloom

  When the fruits of the years wax rotten

  And the seed of them springs no more.

  For the dim strait footway dividing

  The waters that breathed below

  Led safe to the kindliest of shelters

  That ever awoke into light:

  And still in remembrance abiding

  Broods over the stars that glow

  And the water that eddies and welters

  The passionate peace of the night.

  All night long, in the world of sleep,

  Skies and waters were soft and deep:

  Shadow clothed them, and silence made

  Soundless music of dream and shade:

  All above us, the livelong night,

  Shadow, kindled with sense of light;

  All around us, the brief night long,

  Silence, laden with sense of song.

  Stars and mountains without, we knew,

  Watched and waited, the soft night through:

  All unseen, but divined and dear,

  Thrilled the touch of the sea’s breath near:

  All unheard, but alive like sound,

  Throbbed the sense of the sea’s life round:

  Round us, near us, in depth and height,

  Soft as darkness and keen as light.

  And the dawn leapt in at my casement: and there, as I rose, at my feet

  No waves of the landlocked waters, no lake submissive and sweet,

  Soft slave of the lordly seasons, whose breath may loose it or freeze;

  But to left and to right and ahead was the ripple whose pulse is the sea’s.

  From the gorge we had travelled by starlight the sunrise, winged and aflame,

  Shone large on the live wide wavelets that shuddered with joy as it came;

  As it came and caressed and possessed them, till panting and laughing with light

  From mountain to mountain the water was kindled and stung to delight.

  And the
grey gaunt heights that embraced and constrained and compelled it were glad,

  And the rampart of rock, stark naked, that thwarted and barred it, was clad

  With a stern grey splendour of sunrise: and scarce had I sprung to the sea

  When the dawn and the water were wedded, the hills and the sky set free.

  The chain of the night was broken: the waves that embraced me and smiled

  And flickered and fawned in the sunlight, alive, unafraid, undefiled,

  Were sweeter to swim in than air, though fulfilled with the mounting morn,

  Could be for the birds whose triumph rejoiced that a day was born.

  And a day was arisen indeed for us. Years and the changes of years

  Clothed round with their joys and their sorrows, and dead as their hopes and their fears,

  Lie noteless and nameless, unlit by remembrance or record of days

  Worth wonder or memory, or cursing or blessing, or passion or praise,

  Between us who live and forget not, but yearn with delight in it yet,

  And the day we forget not, and never may live and may think to forget.

  And the years that were kindlier and fairer, and kindled with pleasures as keen,

  Have eclipsed not with lights or with shadows the light on the face of it seen.

  For softly and surely, as nearer the boat that we gazed from drew,

  The face of the precipice opened and bade us as birds pass through,

  And the bark shot sheer to the sea through the strait of the sharp steep cleft,

  The portal that opens with imminent rampires to right and to left,

  Sublime as the sky they darken and strange as a spell-struck dream,

  On the world unconfined of the mountains, the reign of the sea supreme,

  The kingdom of westward waters, wherein when we swam we knew

  The waves that we clove were boundless, the wind on our brows that blew

  Had swept no land and no lake, and had warred not on tower or on tree,

  But came on us hard out of heaven, and alive with the soul of the sea.

  THE PALACE OF PAN

  INSCRIBED TO MY MOTHER

  September, all glorious with gold, as a king

  In the radiance of triumph attired,

  Outlightening the summer, outsweetening the spring,

  Broods wide on the woodlands with limitless wing,

  A presence of all men desired.