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

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  BORDER BALLADS

  LORD SOULIS

  LORD SCALES

  BURD MARGARET

  THE WORM OF SPINDLESTONHEUGH

  DURIESDYKE

  WESTLAND WELL

  EARL ROBERT

  THE KING’S AE SON

  LADY MAISIE’S BAIRN

  WEARIESWA’

  THE EARL OF MAR’S DAUGHTER

  MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

  THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN

  THE CUP OF GOD’S WRATH

  ECHO

  DIES IRÆ

  AUTUMN RONDEL

  A CAROL FOR CHARITY

  A SONG FOR MARGARET MIDHURST

  LOVE AND SLEEP

  EVENING BY THE SEA

  SONG FOR CHASTELARD

  KING BAN

  THE WHITE MAID’S WOOING

  LANDOR AT FLORENCE

  SONNET: AH, FACE AND HANDS AND BODY BEAUTIFUL

  GENTLE SPRING

  CONSTANCE AND FREDERICK

  POPE CELESTIN AND GIORDANO

  IN THE TWILIGHT

  CHANSON DE FÉVRIER

  CHANSON D’AVRIL

  THAW

  BALLAD OF THE FAIR HELMET-MAKER TO THE GIRLS OF JOY

  RECOLLECTIONS

  SAIREY GAMP’S ROUNDEL

  TO A LEEDS POET

  SONNET: HIGH THOUGHT AND HALLOWED LOVE, BY FAITH MADE

  AEOLUS

  TO JAMES McNEIL WHISTLER

  THE BALLADE OF TRUTHFUL

  NEW YEAR’S EVE, 1889

  THE CENTENARY OF SHELLEY

  THE CONCERT OF EUROPE

  MEMORIAL ODE ON THE

  MEMORIAL VERSES ON THE DEATH OF KARL BLIND

  ODE TO MAZZINI

  THE GHOST OF IT

  THE DEATH OF RUDEL

  Lift me a little on my bed,

  All this day about my head

  Sudden sounds have fled and fled

  As the waters flee.

  I look into the sunset red,

  I put both hands behind my head

  To hear if anything be said

  I lie as one that long is dead;

  I pray you, lift me on this bed

  That I may hear and see.

  So now, you feel my time hath ran,

  Men will praise me as they can

  For the honour that I wan,

  “This Rudel was a famous man,”

  For kings have praisèd me.

  I ask you what avail is this?

  Better for a man it is

  To have had of her one kiss

  That in life and love was his,

  Than to have all praise.

  Tell me, wherein shall this avail?

  For, see, my hands are lean and pale,

  And at my heart the warm veins fail,

  And I have had my days.

  And this life of mine has gone

  Thro’ its times of mirth and moan,

  And kiss of maiden had I none,

  Tho’ I never loved but one

  All this life of mine.

  Help of love have I not had,

  And sometimes my heart grew mad,

  That all other men were glad

  While I went so white and sad

  At the revels the king bade

  Where they drank their wine.

  All night long and day by day

  While on this ill bed I lay,

  Thro’ the bloom and balm of May

  The same noise have I heard.

  The dull waters slipping slow,

  The wan waters lapping low,

  And no pleasant breath would blow,

  And no song would help me so

  As one spoken word.

  All this pain avails me not,

  Heart and head are weak and hot,

  The hope is withered from my thought,

  The love is plucked out of my lot

  As feathers from a bird.

  At Tripoli

  The sharp cords slacken, the keel sways,

  I hear the fretted shingle graze,

  A rippling anger stirs and frays

  Along the golden water-ways;

  We should be close on land.

  Ah! Christ, that yet for all my pain

  In this heart and beating brain,

  (Lest men say my love were vain)

  I might but touch her hand.

  I am so tired, I cannot see

  The black masts corded over me,

  And past my head strange noises flee,

  Noises flee and fade.

  In the light and in the gloom

  I feel new faces go and come,

  Saddened all, and tender some

  As face of any maid.

  Ah! the rustle of her feet,

  Ah! the murmur faint and sweet,

  Thro’ the blowing snows that fleet

  Round and over me.

  This is she that I would have;

  Lo, the eyes so great and grave,

  And the lips of power to save,

  That I came to see.

  I praise God that I shall die,

  From thin lips a thin glad cry

  Brake as I beheld her nigh,

  To praise God for this.

  Ah! she never saw me yet,

  But her pearl-white lids seem wet;

  Will she love me or forget

  As the manner is?

  Her gold hair, heavy and sweet,

  Clothes her straight from face to feet,

  As she stoops the tresses meet.

  Ah, dear Lord, I prayed for it,

  I have had her kiss.

  (He dies.)

  QUEEN YSEULT

  CANTO 1

  Of the birth of Sir Tristram, and how he voyaged into Ireland

  In the noble days were shown

  Deeds of good knights many one,

  Many worthy wars were done.

  It was time of scath and scorn

  When at breaking of the morn

  Tristram the good knight was born.

  He was fair and well to see

  As his mother’s child might be:

  Many happy wars had he;

  Slew Moronde the knight alone,

  Whence was all the ill begun

  That on Blancheflour was done.

  For long since Queen Blancheflour

  Took a knight to paramour,

  Who had served her well of yore.

  And across the waters dim

  And by many a river’s rim

  Went Queen Blancheflour with him.

  Many a bitter path she went,

  Many a stone her feet had rent,

  But her heart was well content.

  “Lo!” she said, “I lady free

  Took this man for lord of me

  Where the crowned saints might see.

  “And I will not bid him go,

  Not for joyance nor for woe,

  Till my very love he know.”

  When he kissed her as they went,

  All her heart was well content,

  For the love that she him meant.

  Now this knight was called Roland,

  And he had within his hand

  Ermonie the happy land.

  So five months in Ermonie

  Dwelt they in their pleasure free;

  For they knew not what should be.

  Then came Moronde with his men,

  Warring with her lord again.

  All her heart was bitter then.

  But she said: “If this be so,

  Tho’ I die, he shall not know.”

  And she kissed and bade him go;

  And he wept and went from her.

  Then was all the land astir

  With a trouble in the air.

  When Roland the knight was gone,

  Praise of men his warriors won

  Warring well before the sun.

  But Moronde the evil knight

  Smote him falsely in the fight,

  Slew him basely out of sight.

  Then was
weeping long and sore:

  For the great love they him bore

  All men wept but Blancheflour.

  But she took her golden ring

  And a fair sword of the king

  Wrought with many a carven thing.

  With no crown about her head,

  Thinking wild thoughts of the dead,

  Evermore she fled and fled.

  Far within the forest fair,

  A great anguish came on her

  Till a strong manchild she bare.

  And she fain had suckled him,

  There beneath the lindens dim,

  Round a fountain’s weedy brim.

  But too soon came death to take

  All her beauty for his sake;

  And ere death she moaned and spake.

  “Ah, fair child,” the lady said,

  “For this anguish that it had

  All thy mother’s heart is dead.

  “Sweet, I would not live to see

  Any sorrow rest on thee,

  Better thou hadst died with me.

  “Only thou art still too fair

  For that smile I cannot bear

  In such eyes as Roland’s were.

  “Now, fair child, mine own wert thou

  (And she kissed the small soft brow)

  But for death that takes me now.

  “And a bitter birth is thine;

  But no man can stain thy line

  With a shame that was not mine.

  “Thou art pure and princely born;

  Fairer name was never worn,

  Past the touch of any scorn.

  “Now thy grief has come on me,

  As I prayed that it might be

  Lest some woe should rest on thee.”

  Wept the low voice musical;

  “Now that mine has given thee all,

  Better love thy love befall.

  “Purer prayers be round thy sleep,

  Truer tears than these that drip

  On thy tender cheek and lip.

  “Now, dear child, of all on earth

  Thou art yet the fairest birth

  For the pain thy life was worth.

  “Sweetest name and sweetest heart,

  Now I see thee as thou art

  I have had the better part.

  “For the grief my love has had,

  May the sweet saints keep thee glad

  Tho’ thy birth were strange and sad.

  “Now, dear child” (her thin voice strove

  Thro’ the drawn dry sobs to move),

  “Leave I thee to Christ’s own love.”

  So she died in that dark place,

  With the anguish in her face;

  Mary took her into grace.

  On the robe was sown her name,

  Where a fine thread white as flame

  Thro’ the coloured samite came.

  For on skirt and hem between

  Wrought she letters white and green

  “This is Blancheflour the Queen.”

  There men found her as they sped,

  Very beautiful and dead,

  In the lilies white and red.

  And beside her lying there,

  Found a manchild strong and fair

  Lain among the lilies bare.

  And they thought it were ill fate,

  If the child, for fear or hate,

  They should leave in evil state.

  So they took him lying there,

  Playing with the lady’s hair,

  For his face was very fair.

  And so tenderly he played,

  Half asmile and half afraid,

  With her lips and hair, I said,

  That the strong men for his sake

  Could have wept for dear heartache

  At the murmurs he did make.

  And the strongest lightly stept

  Forth to where the mother slept;

  Stooping over her, he wept.

  Lightly bowed above the child

  The large face whose might was mild

  With black-bearded lips that smiled.

  Then he took it of his grace,

  Bowed him where she lay in place,

  Put to hers the little face.

  Then they softly buried her

  Where the greenest leaves did stir,

  With some white flowers in her hair.

  And for the sweet look he had,

  Weeping not but very sad,

  Tristram by his name they bade.

  “For he looks upon her so,

  Pity where he should not grow

  All the piteous thing to know.”

  And they took the sword and ring

  That were of Roland the king,

  Wrought with many a carven thing.

  So they bred him as they knew;

  And a noble child he grew,

  Like a tree in sun and dew.

  Ere he was ten summers old

  All the sorrow they him told,

  Showed the sword and ring of gold.

  Kissed the boy both sword and ring;

  “As my father was a king,

  I will wreak this bitter thing.”

  Kissed the boy both ring and sword;

  “As my mother to her lord,

  Fast I cling to this my word.”

  So he grew in might and grace,

  With her look about his face:

  All men saw his royal race.

  But when twenty years were done

  At the rising of the sun

  Tristram from his place was gone.

  Forth with warriors is he bound

  Over many a change of ground,

  To have wreak of Sir Moronde.

  When he came to Ermonie,

  Bare upon the earth bowed he,

  Kissed the earth with kisses three.

  To the city men him bring,

  Where the herald stood to sing

  “Largesse of Moronde the king!”

  To the king came Tristram then,

  To Moronde the evil man,

  Treading softly as he can.

  Spake he loftily in place:

  A great light was on his face:

  “Listen, king, of thy free grace.

  “I am Tristram, Roland’s son;

  By thy might my lands were won,

  All my lovers were undone.

  “Died by thee Queen Blancheflour,

  Mother mine in bitter hour,

  That was white as any flower.

  “Tho’ they died not well aright,

  Yet, for thou art belted knight,

  King Moronde, I bid thee fight.”

  A great laughter laughed they all,

  Drinking wine about the hall,

  Standing by the outer wall.

  But the pale king leapt apace,

  Caught his staff that lay in place

  And smote Tristram on the face.

  Tristram stood back paces two,

  All his face was reddened so

  Round the deep mark of the blow.

  Large and bright the king’s eyes grew:

  As knight Roland’s sword he drew,

  Fiercely like a pard he flew.

  And above the staring eyes

  Smote Moronde the king flatwise,

  That men saw the dear blood rise.

  At the second time he smote,

  All the carven blade, I wot,

  With the blood was blurred and hot.

  At the third stroke that he gave,

  Deep the carven steel he drave,

  Thro’ King Moronde’s heart it clave.

  Well I ween his wound was great

  As he sank across the seat,

  Slain for Blancheflour the sweet.

  Then spake Tristram, praising God;

  In his father’s place he stood

  Wiping clean the smears of blood,

  That the sword, while he did pray,

  At the throne’s foot he might lay;

  Christ save all good knights, I s
ay.

  Then spake all men in his praise,

  Speaking words of the old days,

  Sweeter words than sweetest lays.

  Said one, “Lo the dead queen’s hair

  And her brows so straight and fair;

  So the lips of Roland were.”

  For all praised him as he stood,

  That such things none other could

  Than the son of kingly blood.

  Round he looked with quiet eyes;

  “When ye saw King Moronde rise,

  None beheld me on this wise.”

  At such words as he did say,

  Bare an old man knelt to pray;

  “Christ be with us all to-day.

  “This is Tristram the good lord;

  Knightly hath he held his word,

  Warring with his father’s sword.”

  Then one brought the diadem,

  Clear and golden like pure flame;

  And his thanks did grace to them.

  Next in courteous wise he bade

  That fair honour should be had

  Of the dear queen that was dead.

  So in her great sorrow’s praise

  A fair tomb he bade them raise

  For a wonder to the days.

  And between its roof and floor

  Wrote he two words and no more,

  Wrote Roland and Blancheflour.

  That was carven sharp in gold,

  For a great praise to behold,

  Where the queen lay straight and cold,

  All was graven deep and fine,