Excerpt
THE VOICE THAT SINGS
The voice that sings across the night Of long forgotten days and things,Is there an ear to hear aright The voice that sings?
It is as when a curfew rings Melodious in the dying light,A sound that flies on pulsing wings.
And faded eyes that once were bright Brim over, as to life it bringsThe echo of a dead delight, The voice that sings.
THE BEST PIPEIn vain you fervently extol, In vain you puff, your cutty clay.A twelvemonth smoked and black as coal, ’Tis redolent of rank decayAnd bones of monks long passed away— A fragrance I do not admire;And so I hold my nose and say, Give me a finely seasoned briar.
Macleod, whose judgment on the whole Is faultless, has been led astrayTo nurse a high-born meerschaum bowl, For which he sweetly had to pay.Ah, let him nurse it as he may, Before the colour mounts much higher,The grate shall be its fate one day. Give me a finely seasoned briar.
The heathen Turk of Istamboul, In oriental turban gay,Delights his unbelieving soul With hookahs, bubbling in a wayTo fill a Christian with dismay And wake the old Crusading fire.May no such pipe be mine, I pray; Give me a finely seasoned briar.
Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they That I should view them with desire?Both now, and when my hair is grey, Give me a finely seasoned briar.
HYMN OF HIPPOLYTUS TO ARTEMISArtemis! thou fairestOf the maids that beIn divine Olympus,Hail! Hail to thee!To thee I bring this woven weedCulled for thee from a virgin mead,Where neither shepherd claims his flocks to feedNor ever yet the mower’s scythe hath come.There in the Spring the wild bee hath his home,Lightly passing to and froWhere the virgin flowers grow;And there the watchful Purity doth goMoistening with dew-drops all the ground below,Drawn from a river untaintedly flowing,They who have gained by a kind fate’s bestowingPure hearts, untaught by philosophy’s care,May gather the flowers in the mead that are blowing,But the tainted in spirit may never be there.
Now, O Divinest, eternally fair,Take thou this garland to gather thy hair,Brought by a hand that is pure as the air.For I alone of all the sons of menHear thy pure accents, answering thee again.And may I reach the goal of life as I began the race,Blest by the music of thy voice, though darkness ever veil thy face!
ON A CRUSHED HATBrown was my friend, and faithful—but so fat! He came to see me in the twilight dim; I rose politely and invited himTo take a seat—how heavily he sat!
He sat upon the sofa, where my hat, My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim; Its build, unlike my friend’s, was rather slim,And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat.
O Hat, that wast the apple of my eye, Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown, And I shall never wear thee any more;Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie, And with the years the dust will settle down On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore!
A SWINBURNIAN INTERLUDEShort space shall be hereafter Ere April brings the hourOf weeping and of laughter, Of sunshine and of shower,Of groaning and of gladness,Of singing and of sadness,Of melody and madness, Of all sweet things and sour.
Sweet to the blithe bucolic Who knows nor cribs nor crams,Who sees the frisky frolic Of lanky little lambs;But sour beyond expressionTo one in deep depressionWho sees the closing session And imminent exams....