Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)
Page 164
— Are not we vicar of the Son of God?
Are not we lord of you and him? Ha, see
How the flames twinkle when my hand goes up!
The fingers are but lank as sprays of wood
In the late snow-time, eh, or blades embrowned
On some lean field this bitter March — see, Count,
This grey hair comes on all! ay, well I know
The blessèd tonsure came on it before —
Ay, thin scalp, said you! yea, but, sir, no Count
Keeps always dark hair, not so thick as yours,
God help it!
Gio. — I beseech your Holiness
Even by the sweet blood of your Lord the Christ,
Believe me this is perilous to say:
You talk of things that either you must kill
Or they will smite you on the sacred face,
Discredit you, despoil the chosen gold
On the dear bosom of this mother Church,
Uncover —
Cel. — Ah, sir, tell me not of these 1
An old man — ere the blessèd knife had shorn
One black top curl, I might have answered you;
I was too young — eh well, suppose men talk,
What matter? there’s a lie in each man’s mouth.
Yea “dixi” said God’s blessed Psalmist once
“Dixi,” that’s where the choir breaks out full breath,
Makes half the sweet smoke ripple graciously,.
Praising God’s mother in delicious wise.
Ah, sir, be very tender of such words;
The trampled flesh is like a hurt snake’s head
Most quick to peer up sharply — ah, sir, then
It stings the blood thro’, verily!
Gio. — My lord —
Cel. Ay, then begins to stir and strike and more
God keep us — worries as with angry teeth,
This sensual serpent of the evil flesh,
With its bruised head alive and such keen eyes
And such a large mouth with lean lips astir.
Ah, sir, be very tender of the flesh!
Gold said you, gold? there was hair once she had
Most like a Byzant painter makes
For some saint’s face — alas, the hair she had
Which now red worms have eaten to the roots!
Ah, flesh is weaker than a rich man’s breath,
An old man’s hand with fingers shut like these —
The mouth she had which years ago black earth
Filled to the lips that used to kiss me once,
Which Mary pardon! so shall I too die
And have my body eaten of cold worms
As Herod — so Christ pardon me the sin!
Gold said you, on her bosom? ah, she wore
An armlet of thin gold, and on her neck
There was a plait she had of threaded yellow silk —
And all this has been done with many years,
And will not come again. I grow so old,
So — old and sick, alas the evil flesh!
Gio. I told your Holiness of Henry’s aim,
His aim assured and evident, to seize
The Church lands and the Church’s wealth, if you
Confirm not, sir, his tyrannous dignity
By the mere seal of strong permission: think
I do beseech you by Queen Mary’s might,
What shame, what utter peril there should be
If this thing fall! That henceforth one may say
Trust in the Church and trust, and find no place
Where truth makes head against the violent world —
If you do this: yea, men will violate
Things hidden with securest insolence;
So — that between the slayer’s bearded mouth
And the chaste lip of reverence there will be
Even such communion as the traitor’s kiss,
A present lie for ever.
Cel. — Ay, woe’s me,
A lie to say — a very bitter lie
To take upon the tongue we pray withal.
Alas, sir, while God keeps us scant of grace,
The body and the body’s frail thin sense
Is liable to most dangerous attributes,
Is vulnerable to any sword of sins,
To any craft of Satan’s; we should think
We are made of most frail body and weak soul
Mere tools for diabolic usages,
For ministration of man’s enemy
Whom God confound! nathless it hath been kept
I say, sir, there be men have seldom sinned
Since the pure vow made clean their fleshly lips:
To God ascribe the praise, my son, not me;
Yea, be it written for me in God’s book
What have I done — whereof I take but blame
Seeing there is no profit in me, none,
Nor in my service: verily I think
The keeper of God’s house is more than I,
Who have but served him these hoar eighty years
With barren service.
Gio. — (Ay, past help of mine!)
I pray you then, my lord, that of your grace
I may speak with the Cardinal Orsino
As in your name; he loves me well, there’s none
Of more swift judgment and deliberate act,
Nor who serves justice better.
Cel. — Yea, my lord,
You shall have letters to the cardinal;
A good man, who hath slain the flesh of sin —
A good man, certainly no son of Christ
Hath done more service, is more ripe for grace.
He hath looked seldom on the evil thing
To hunger for it in the bond of lust
Or violence of the keen iniquitous will:
I’ll send him letters — yea, a man of grace,
A pillar fairly carven of wrought stone
All builded without hammer, clean and fair
To do God honour, and accredit us
The builder of him: for his judgment, sir,
That shall you test, but all grow old in time.
Ay, soon or late God fashions us anew
By some good patterns; so shall all get made
Fit to be welded stone by shapen stone
Into the marvellous Jerusalem wall
That shall be builded. A good man, I said,
But somewhat older than he was, meseems,
That shall you notice; let him not suspect
That I misdoubt him, sir; he hath been wise
Fulfilled of grace and wisdom: but our time
Is as a day — as half a day with God:
Yea, as a watch that passeth in the night
And is not honoured. Come, sir, you shall go:
I pray God prosper you, and overcome
The evil of your body, by his grace.
Also the Cardinal, that he may speak
Things worthy, which shall worthily be heard
For without wisdom are we as the grass
Which the sun withers: yea, our sojourn here
Is as a watch that passeth in the night
IN THE TWILIGHT
LORD, is it daytime or night?
Failure, Lord, or success?
Speak to us, answer us, thou:
Surely the light of thy brow
Gave us, giveth us, light,
Dark be the season or bright,
Strong to support or suppress.
Thou, with eyes to the east,
Beautiful, vigilant eyes;
Father, Comforter, Chief,
Joy be it with us or grief,
Season of funeral or feast,
Careful of thine, of thy least,
Careful who lives and who dies.
Soul and Spirit of all,
Keeping the watch of the world,
All through the night-watches, there
Gazing through turbulent
air
Standest; how shall we fall?
What should afflict or appal,
Though the streamers of storm be
furled?
All the noise of the night,
All the thunder of things,
All the terrors be hurled
Of the blind brute-force of the world,
All the weight of the fight,
All men’s violent might,
All the confluence of Kings;
Rouse all earth against us,
Hurl all heaven against thee?
Though it be thus, though it were,
Speak to us, if thou be there,
Save, tho’ indeed it be thus
Then that the dolorous
Stream sweeps off to the sea.
Lift up heads that are hidden,
Strengthen hearts that are faint;
Lighten on eyes that are blind
To the poor of thy kind,
Courage their lives over-ridden,
Smitten how sorely and chidden
Sharply with reins of restraint
Peace, it may be he will say,
Somewhat, if yet ye will hear
Some great word of a chief
Ask not of joy, neither grief,
Ask nothing more of the day,
Not whether night be away,
Not whether comfort be near.
Seek not after a token;
Ask not what of the night,
Nor what the end of it brings:
Seek after none of these things.
What though nothing were spoken,
Nothing, though all we were broken,
Shewn as seen of the light?
What if the morning awake
Never of us to be seen?
Yet, if we die, if we live,
That which we have will we give,
That which is with us we take,
Borne in our hands for her sake
Who shall be and is and hath been.
She though we die we shall find
Surely, though far she be fled,
Nay, if we find not at last,
We, though we die and go past,
Yet shall we leave her behind,
Leave to the sons of our kind
Men that come after us dead.
These shall say of us then;
“Freedom they had not as we,
Yet were none of them slaves;
Free they lie in their graves,
Our fathers, the ancient of men,
Souls that awake not again
Free, as we living were free.”
Then, if remembrance remain,
Shall we not seeing have said
Out of the place where we lie
Hearing, rejoice and reply;
Men of a world without stain
Sons of men that in vain
Lie not for love of you dead.
1867.
CHANSON DE FÉVRIER
TRESSONS ma guirlande
D’ix et de cyprès,
Bien belle est la lande,
Bien verts sont les près.
Faites-moi ma bière,
Mettez-m’y ce soir:
Bien triste est la terre,
Le tombeau bien noir.
Qu’il aille aimer Rose;
L’amour lui sied bien;
Elle a toute chose,
Et moi je n’ai rien.
Des nattes de soie
Qu’on rehausse en tour;
Des yeux pleins de joie
Et vides d’amour.
Quand son cou se cambre,
Tous ses grands cheveux
Cousus d’or et d’ambre
Tombent sur ses yeux.
De l’Eure à la Sambre,
On ne vit jamais
SI beaux cheveux d’ambre,
SI beaux yeux de jais.
Je n’ai rien à dire;
J’ai gardé ma foi.
Sa bouche sait rire;
Je sais pleurer, moi.
La lune était belle;
Mais le jour a lui.
Que nous voulait-elle
Quand j’étais à lui?
Vous verrez éclose,
Quand mai le veut bien,
Vous verrez la rose,
Je ne verrai rien.
Les jours où l’on cueille
L’hyacinthe au pré,
Et la chèvrefeuille,
Moi je dormirai.
Que dit la colombe?
Vivez, aimez-vous:
Bien douce est la tombe,
Le gazon bien doux.
Mais quand l’hirondelle
Chante aux champs de mai
Va, lui dira-t-elle,
Tu fus bien aimé.
CHANSON D’AVRIL
TRESSEZ ma couronne
Des fleurs de roseau.
Tu me dis: Sois bonne,
Je te dis: Sois beau.
Ecoute: tu m’aimes,
La belle aux beaux yeux;
Allons par nous-mêmes,
Allons deux à deux.
Nous irons, ma chère,
Au fond du verger:
Tu seras bergère,
Je serai berger.
Tais-toi donc, mignonne,
Il faut s’apaiser
Quand on est si bonne,
Si bonne à baiser.
La roseau qui penche
Est moins doux, moins frais;
Moins belle, moins blanche,
La rose des près.
Que dit l’hirondelle?
Le jour va périr:
Aimons-nous, ma belle,
Avant de mourir.
Aimons-nous, ma mie:
Viens, écoute, vois;
Songe que la vie
Ne vient qu’une fois.
Veux-tu que je meure,
Vraiment, sans amour?
Nous vivons une heure
Nous mourrons un jour.
THAW
A FRAGMENT
THIS winter’s white is no more strong than snow
Against the red of spring in buds and beams,
In sun and shoot refilled with fluent fire
And heart of lusty labour and large life.
Already the lean hoar-frost is deflowered
Of half its breathless blossom of thin leaves
Wrought false on glass, and that glass not so
frail;
Already the split ice yearns, and now the thaw
Begins on every river and unsealed well;
The snow shudders against the sun, the hills
Warm them with morning. What shall noon do next?
1871.
BALLAD OF THE FAIR HELMET-MAKER TO THE GIRLS OF JOY
FROM VILLON
Now think hereof, fair Gloveress,
That wast my scholar constantly,
And you too, Blanche the Cobbleress,
’Tis time to walk now warily,
Take right and left; I pray you, see
Ye spare no man in any place;
For old girls keep-no currency,
No more than coin cried down for base.
And you, my dainty Flesheress,
So light in dance of heel and knee,
And Winifred the Weaveress,
Despise not low your master free;
Ye too must shut up shop, all ye
When ye wax old and bleak of face;
Of no more use than old priests be,
No more than coin cried down for base.
Take heed too, Joan the Hatteress,
That no fiend lime your liberty;
No more, fair Kate, the Spurrieress,
Bid men go hang or pack to sea;
For whoso lacks her beauty, she
Gets scorn of them, and no good grace,
Foul age takes no man’s love for fee,
No more than coin cried down for base.
Girls, hearken and give heed to me,
Why thus I wail and weep my case
’
Tis that I find no remedy,
No more than coin cried down for base.
1872.
RECOLLECTIONS
YEARS have sped from us under the sun
Through blossom and snow-tides twenty-one,
Since first your hand as a friend’s was mine,
In a season whose days are yet honey and wine
To the pale close lips of Remembrance, shed
By the cupbearer Love for desire of the dead:
And the weeds I send you may half seem flowers
In eyes that were lit by the light of its hours.
For the life (if at all there be life) in them grew
From the sun then risen on a young day’s dew,
When ever in August holiday times
I rode or swam through a rapture of rhymes,
Over heather and crag, and by scaur and by
stream,
Clothed with delight by the might of a dream,
With the sweet sharp wind blown hard through
my hair,
On eyes enkindled and head made bare,
Reining my rhymes into royal order
Through honied leagues of the northland
border;
Or loosened a song to seal for me
A kiss on the clamorous mouth of the sea.
So swarmed and sprang, as a covey they start,
The song-birds hatched of a hot glad heart,
With notes too shrill and a windy joy
Fluttering and firing the brain of a boy,
With far keen echoes of painless pain
Beating their wings on his heart and his brain,
Till a life’s whole reach, were it brief, were it
long,
Seemed but a field to be sown with song.
The snow-time is melted, the flower-time is fled,
That were one to me then for the joys they shed.
Joys in garland and sorrows in sheaf,
Rose-red pleasure and gold-eared grief,
Reared of the rays of a mid-noon sky,
I have gathered and housed them, worn and put
by,
These wild-weed waifs with a wan green bloom
Found in the grass of that old year’s tomb,
Touched by the gleam of it, soiled with its
dust,
I well could leave in the green grave’s trust,