FRANCIS THOMPSON Threatened Tears
Do not loose those rains thy wetEyes, my Fair, unsurely threat;Do not, Sweet, do not so;Thou canst not have a single woe,But this sad and doubtful weatlierOvercasts us both together.In the aspect of those known eyesMy soul's a captain weatherwise.Ah me! what presages it seesIn those watery Hyades.Arab Love Song
The hunchèd camels of the night*Trouble the brightAnd silver waters of the moon.The Maiden of the Morn will soonThrough Heaven stray and sing,Star gathering.Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.Leave thy father, leave thy motherAnd thy brother;Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!Am I not thy father and thy brother,And thy mother?And thou—what needest with thy tribe's black tentsWho hast the red pavilion of my heart?
* The cloud-shapes often observed by travellers in the East.Buona Notte
Jane Williams, in her last letter to Shelley, wrote: "Why do you talk of never enjoying moments like the past? Are you going to join your friend Plato, or do you expect I shall do so soon? Buona Notte." This letter was dated July 6th, and Shelley was drowned on the 8th. The following is his imagined reply from, another world:—
Ariel to Miranda:—hearThis good-night the sea-winds bear;And let thine unacquainted earTake grief for their interpreter.Good-night; I have risen so highInto slumber's rarity,Not a dream can beat its featherThrough the unsustaining ether.Let the sea-winds make avouchHow thunder summoned me to couch,Tempest curtained me aboutAnd turned the sun with his own hand out:And though I toss upon my bedMy dream is not disquieted;Nay, deep I sleep upon the deep,And my eyes are wet, but I do not weep;And I fell to sleep so suddenlyThat my lips are moist yet—could'st thou seeWith the good-night draught I have drunk to thee.Thou can'st not wipe them; for it was DeathDamped my lips that has dried my breath.A little while—it is not long—The salt shall dry on them like the song.Now know'st thou, that voice desolate,Mourning ruined joy's estate,Reached thee through a closing gate."Go'st thou to Plato?" Ah, girl, no!It is to Pluto that I go.The Passion of Mary
O Lady Mary, thy bright crownIs no mere crown of majesty;For with the reflex of His ownResplendent thorns Christ circled thee.The red rose of this passion tideDoth take a deeper hue from thee,In the five Wounds of Jesus dyed,And in Thy bleeding thoughts, Mary.The soldier struck a triple strokeThat smote thy Jesus on the tree;He broke the Heart of hearts, and brokeThe Saint's and Mother's hearts in thee.Thy Son went up the Angels' ways,His passion ended; but, ah me!Thou found'st the road of further daysA longer way of Calvary.On the hard cross of hopes deferredThou hung'st in loving agony,Until the mortal dreaded word,Which chills our mirth, spake mirth to thee.The Angel Death from this cold tombOf life did roll the stone away;And He thou barest in thy wombCaught thee at last into the day—Before the living throne of WhomThe lights of heaven burning pray....