English Poems.

by Richard Le Gallienne.

EPISTLE DEDICATORY

_Dear Sister: Hear the conclusion of the whole matter. You dream like mad, you love like tinder, you aspire like a star-struck moth--for what?

That you may hive little lyrics, and sell to a publisher for thirty pieces of silver.

Hard by us here is a 'bee-farm.' It always reminds me of a publisher's.

The bee has loved a thousand flowers, through a hundred afternoons, he has filled little sacred cells with the gold of his stolen kisses--for what? That the whole should be wrenched away and sold at so much 'the comb'--as though it were a hair-comb. 'Mummy is become merchandise ...

and Pharaoh is sold for balsams.'

Can we ever forget those old mornings when we rose with the lark, and, while the earliest sunlight slanted through the sleeping house, stole to the little bookclad study to read--Heaven bless us!--you, perhaps, Mary Wollstonecraft, and I, Livy, in a Froben folio of 1531!!

Will you accept these old verses in memory of those old mornings? Ah, then came in the sweet o' the year.

Yours now as then_,

R. Le G.

May 14th, 1892.

ENGLISH POEMS

TO THE READER

_Art was a palace once, things great and fair, And strong and holy, found a temple there: Now 'tis a lazar-house of leprous men.

O shall me hear an English song again!

Still English larks mount in the merry morn, An English May still brings an English thorn, Still English daisies up and down the gra.s.s, Still English love for English lad and la.s.s-- Yet youngsters blush to sing an English song!_

_Thou nightingale that for six hundred years Sang to the world--O art thou husht at last!

For, not of thee this new voice in our ears, Music of France that once was of the spheres; And not of thee these strange green flowers that spring From daisy roots and seemed to bear a sting_.

_Thou Helicon of numbers 'undefiled,'

Forgive that 'neath the shadow of thy name, England, I bring a song of little fame; Not as one worthy but as loving thee, Not as a singer, only as a child_.

PAOLO AND FRANCESCA

To R.K. Leather (July 16th, 1892.)

PAOLO AND FRANCESCA

It happened in that great Italian land Where every bosom heateth with a star-- At Rimini, anigh that crumbling strand The Adriatic filcheth near and far-- In that same past where Dante's dream-days are, That one Francesca gave her youthful gold Unto an aged carle to bolt and bar; Though all the love which great young hearts can hold, How could she give that love unto a miser old?

Nay! but young Paolo was the happy lad, A youth of dreaming eye yet dauntless foot, Who all Francesca's wealth of loving had; One brave to scale a wall and steal the fruit, Nor fear because some dotard owned the root; Yea! one who wore his love like sword on thigh And kept not all his valour for his lute; One who could dare as well as sing and sigh.

Ah! then were hearts to love, but they are long gone by.

Ye lily-wives so happy in the nest, Whose joy within the gates of duty springs, Blame not Love's poor, who, if they would be blest, Must steal what comes to you with marriage rings: Ye pity the poor lark whose scarce-tried wings Faint in the net, while still the morning air With brown free throats of all his brethren sings, And can it be ye will not pity her, Whose youth is as a lark all lost to singing there?

In opportunity of dear-bought joy Rich were this twain, for old Lanciotto, he Who was her lord, was brother of her boy, And in one home together dwelt the three, With brothers two beside; and he and she Sat at one board together, in one fane Their voices rose upon one hymn, ah me!

Beneath one roof each night their limbs had lain, As now in death they share the one eternal pain.

As much as common men can love a flower Unto Lanciotto was Francesca dear, 'Tis not on such Love wields his jealous power; And therefore Paolo moved him not to fear, Though he so green with youth and he so sere.

Nor yet indeed was wrong, the hidden thing Grew at each heart, unknown of each, a year,-- Two eggs still silent in the nest through spring, May draws so near to June, and not yet time to sing!

Yet oft, indeed, through days that gave no sign Had but Francesca turned about and read Paolo's bright eyes that only dared to shine On the dear gold that glorified her head; Ere all the light had from their circles fled And the grey Honour darkened all his face: They had not come to June and nothing said, Day followed day with such an even pace, Nor night succeeded night and left no starry trace.

Or, surely, had the flower Paolo pressed In some sweet volume when he put it by.

Told how his mistress drew it to her breast And called upon his name when none was nigh; Had but the scarf he kissed with piteous cry But breathed again its secret unto her, Or had but one of every little sigh Each left for each been love's true messenger: They surely had not kept that winter all the year.

Yea! love lay hushed and waiting like a seed, Some laggard of the season still abed Though the sun calls and gentle zephyrs plead, And Hope that waited long must deem it dead; Yet lo! to-morrow sees its shining head Singing at dawn 'mid all the garden throng: Ah, had it known, it had been earlier sped-- Was it for fear of day it slept so long, Or were its dreams of singing sweeter than the song?

But what poor flower can symbol all the might And all the magnitude, great Love, of thee?

Ah, is there aught can image thee aright In earth or heaven, how great or fair it be?

We watch the acorn grow into the tree, We watch the patient spark surprise the mine, But what are oaks to thy Ygdrasil-tree?

What the mad mine's convulsive strength to thine, That wrecks a world but bids heaven's soaring steeples shine?

A G.o.d that hath no earthly metaphor, A blinding word that hath no earthly rhyme, Love! we can only call and no name more; As the great lonely thunder rolls sublime, As the great sun doth solitary climb, And we have but themselves to know them by, Just so Love stands a stranger amid Time: The G.o.d is there, the great voice speaks on high, We pray, 'What art thou, Lord?' but win us no reply.

So in the dark grew Love, but feared to flower, Dreamed to himself, but never spake a word, Burned like a prisoned fire from hour to hour, Sang his dear song like an unheeded bird; Waiting the summoning voice so long unheard, Waiting with weary eyes the gracious sign To bring his rose, and tell the dream he dared, The tremulous moment when the star should shine, And each should ask of each, and each should answer --'Thine.'

Winter to-day, but lo! to-morrow spring!

They waited long, but oh at last it came, Came in a silver hush at evening; Francesca toyed with threads upon a frame, Hard by young Paolo read of knight and dame That long ago had loved and pa.s.sed away: He had no other way to tell his flame, She dare not listen any other way-- But even that was bliss to lovers poor as they.

The world grew sweet with wonder in the west The while he read and while she listened there, And many a dream from out its silken nest Stole like a curling incense through the air; Yet looked she not on him, nor did he dare: But when the lovers kissed in Paradise His voice sank and he turned his gaze on her, Like a young bird that flutters ere it flies,-- And lo! a shining angel called him from her eyes.

Then from the silence sprang a kiss like flame, And they hung lost together; while around The world was changed, no more to be the same Meadow or sky, no little flower or sound Again the same, for earth grew holy ground: While in the silence of the mounting moon Infinite love throbbed in the straining bound Of that great kiss, the long-delaying boon, Granted indeed at last, but ended, ah! so soon.

As the great sobbing fulness of the sea Fills to the throat some void and aching cave, Till all its hollows tremble silently, Pressed with sweet weight of softly-lapping wave: So kissed those mighty lovers glad and brave.

And as a sky from which the sun has gone Trembles all night with all the stars he gave A firmament of memories of the sun,-- So thrilled and thrilled each life when that great kiss was done.

But coward shame that had no word to say In pa.s.sion's hour, with sudden icy clang Slew the bright morn, and through the tarnished day An iron bell from light to darkness rang: She shut her ears because a throstle sang, She dare not hear the little innocent bird, And a white flower made her poor head to hang-- To be so white! once she was white as curd, But now--'Alack!' 'Alack!' She speaks no other word.

The pearly line on yonder hills afar Within the dawn, when mounts the lark and sings By the great angel of the morning star,-- That was his love, and all free fair fresh things That move and glitter while the daylight springs: To thus know love, and yet to spoil love thus!

To lose the dream--O silly beating wings-- Great dream so splendid and miraculous: O Lord, O Lord, have mercy, have mercy upon us.

She turned her mind upon the holy ones Whose love lost here was love in heaven tenfold, She thought of Lucy, that most blessed of nuns Who sent her blue eyes on a plate of gold To him who wooed her daily for her love-- 'Mine eyes!' 'Mine eyes!' 'Here,--go in peace, they are!'

But ever love came through the midnight grove, Young Love, with wild eyes watching from afar, And called and called and called until the morning star.

Ah, poor Francesca, 'tis not such as thou That up the stony steeps of heaven climb; Take thou thy heaven with thy Paolo now-- Sweet saint of sin, saint of a deathless rhyme, Song shall defend thee at the bar of Time, Dante shall set thy fair young glowing face On the dark background of his theme sublime, And Thou and He in your superb disgrace Still on that golden wind of pa.s.sion shall embrace.