The Burden Of Itys

　　This English Thames is holier far than Rome，

　　Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea

　　Breaking across the woodland， with the foam¹

　　Of meadow-sweet and white anemone³

　　To fleck⁴ their blue waves， - God is likelier there

　　Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks⁵ bear！

　　Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take

　　Yon creamy lily for their pavilion

　　Are monsignores， and where the rushes shake

　　A lazy pike lies basking⁶ in the sun，

　　His eyes half shut， - he is some mitred old

　　Bishop⁷ in PARTIBUS！ look at those gaudy⁸ scales all green and gold.

　　The wind the restless prisoner of the trees

　　Does well for Palaestrina， one would say

　　The mighty⁹ master's hands were on the keys

　　Of the Maria organ， which they play

　　When early on some sapphire¹⁰ Easter morn

　　In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne

　　From his dark House out to the Balcony

　　Above the bronze gates and the crowded square，

　　Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy¹¹

　　To toss their silver lances in the air，

　　And stretching out weak hands to East and West

　　In vain sends peace to peaceless lands， to restless nations rest.

　　Is not yon lingering orange after-glow

　　That stays to vex¹² the moon more fair than all

　　Rome's lordliest pageants¹³！ strange， a year ago

　　I knelt before some crimson¹⁴ Cardinal¹⁵

　　Who bare the Host across the Esquiline，

　　And now - those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.

　　The blue-green beanfields yonder， tremulous

　　With the last shower， sweeter perfume bring

　　Through this cool evening than the odorous

　　Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing，

　　When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine¹⁶，

　　And makes God's body from the common fruit of corn and vine.

　　Poor Fra Giovanni bawling¹⁷ at the mass

　　Were out of tune¹⁸ now， for a small brown bird

　　Sings overhead， and through the long cool grass

　　I see that throbbing¹⁹ throat which once I heard

　　On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady，

　　Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.

　　Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves

　　At daybreak， when the mower²⁰ whets²¹ his scythe²²，

　　And stock-doves murmur²³， and the milkmaid leaves

　　Her little lonely bed， and carols blithe²⁵

　　To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait

　　Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.

　　And sweet the hops²⁶ upon the Kentish leas，

　　And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay，

　　And sweet the fretful swarms²⁷ of grumbling²⁸ bees

　　That round and round the linden blossoms play；

　　And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall，

　　And the green bursting figs²⁹ that hang upon the red-brick wall，

　　And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring

　　While the last violet loiters by the well，

　　And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing

　　The song of Linus through a sunny dell

　　Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold

　　And the slight lithe-limbed reapers³⁰ dance about the wattled fold.

　　And sweet with young Lycoris to recline

　　In some Illyrian valley far away，

　　Where canopied³¹ on herbs amaracine

　　We too might waste the summer-tranced day

　　Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry³²，

　　While far beneath us frets³³ the troubled purple of the sea.

　　But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot

　　Of some long-hidden God should ever tread

　　The Nuneham meadows， if with reeded flute³⁴

　　Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head

　　By the green water-flags， ah！ sweet indeed

　　To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.

　　Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister，

　　Though what thou sing'st be thine own requiem³⁶！

　　Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler

　　Of thine own tragedies！ do not contemn³⁷

　　These unfamiliar³⁸ haunts， this English field，

　　For many a lovely coronal our northern isle³⁹ can yield

　　Which Grecian meadows know not， many a rose

　　Which all day long in vales AEolian

　　A lad might seek in vain for over-grows

　　Our hedges like a wanton courtesan

　　Unthrifty of its beauty； lilies too

　　Ilissos never mirrored star our streams， and cockles blue

　　Dot the green wheat which， though they are the

　　signs

　　For swallows going south， would never spread

　　Their azure⁴¹ tents between the Attic⁴² vines；

　　Even that little weed of ragged⁴³ red，

　　Which bids the robin⁴⁴ pipe， in Arcady

　　Would be a trespasser⁴⁵， and many an unsung elegy⁴⁶

　　Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding⁴⁷ Thames

　　Which to awake were sweeter ravishment

　　Than ever Syrinx wept for； diadems⁴⁸

　　Of brown bee-studded orchids⁴⁹ which were meant

　　For Cytheraea's brows are hidden here

　　Unknown to Cytheraea， and by yonder pasturing steer⁵⁰

　　There is a tiny yellow daffodil，

　　The butterfly can see it from afar，

　　Although one summer evening's dew could fill

　　Its little cup twice over ere the star

　　Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold

　　And be no prodigal⁵¹； each leaf is flecked with spotted⁵² gold

　　As if Jove's gorgeous leman Danae

　　Hot from his gilded⁵³ arms had stooped to kiss

　　The trembling petals⁵⁴， or young Mercury

　　Low-flying to the dusky ford⁵⁵ of Dis

　　Had with one feather of his pinions⁵⁶

　　Just brushed them！ the slight stem which bears the burden of its

　　suns

　　Is hardly thicker than the gossamer⁵⁷，

　　Or poor Arachne's silver tapestry⁵⁸， -

　　Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre

　　Of One I sometime worshipped， but to me

　　It seems to bring diviner memories

　　Of faun-loved Heliconian glades⁶¹ and blue nymph-haunted seas，

　　Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where

　　On the clear river's marge Narcissus lies，

　　The tangle⁶² of the forest in his hair，

　　The silence of the woodland in his eyes，

　　Wooing that drifting imagery which is

　　No sooner kissed than broken； memories of Salmacis

　　Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both，

　　Fed by two fires and unsatisfied

　　Through their excess， each passion being loth

　　For love's own sake to leave the other's side

　　Yet killing⁶³ love by staying； memories

　　Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees，

　　Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf⁶⁴

　　At Naxos， when she saw the treacherous⁶⁵ crew

　　Far out at sea， and waved her crimson scarf

　　And called false Theseus back again nor knew

　　That Dionysos on an amber⁶⁶ pard

　　Was close behind her； memories of what Maeonia's bard⁶⁷

　　With sightless eyes beheld⁶⁸， the wall of Troy，

　　Queen Helen lying in the ivory room，

　　And at her side an amorous⁶⁹ red-lipped boy

　　Trimming with dainty hand his helmet's plume⁷⁰，

　　And far away the moil， the shout， the groan⁷¹，

　　As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled⁷² the stone；

　　Of winged Perseus with his flawless sword

　　Cleaving⁷³ the snaky tresses of the witch，

　　And all those tales imperishably stored

　　In little Grecian urns⁷⁴， freightage more rich

　　Than any gaudy galleon⁷⁵ of Spain

　　Bare from the Indies ever！ these at least bring back again，

　　For well I know they are not dead at all，

　　The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy：

　　They are asleep， and when they hear thee call

　　Will wake and think 't is very Thessaly，

　　This Thames the Daulian waters， this cool glade⁶⁰

　　The yellow-irised mead² where once young Itys laughed and played.

　　If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird

　　Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne

　　Sang to the wondrous⁷⁶ boy， until he heard

　　The horn of Atalanta faintly blown

　　Across the Cumnor hills， and wandering

　　Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets' spring， -

　　Ah！ tiny sober-suited advocate

　　That pleadest for the moon against the day！

　　If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate

　　On that sweet questing， when Proserpina

　　Forgot it was not Sicily and leant

　　Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment， -

　　Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood！

　　If ever thou didst soothe⁷⁷ with melody

　　One of that little clan⁷⁸， that brotherhood⁷⁹

　　Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany

　　More than the perfect sun of Raphael

　　And is immortal⁸⁰， sing to me！ for I too love thee well.

　　Sing on！ sing on！ let the dull world grow young，

　　Let elemental things take form again，

　　And the old shapes of Beauty walk among

　　The simple garths and open crofts， as when

　　The son of Leto bare the willow⁸¹ rod，

　　And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.

　　Sing on！ sing on！ and Bacchus will be here

　　Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne，

　　And over whimpering tigers shake the spear

　　With yellow ivy⁸² crowned and gummy cone⁸³，

　　While at his side the wanton Bassarid

　　Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid！

　　Sing on！ and I will wear the leopard⁸⁴ skin，

　　And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth，

　　Upon whose icy chariot we could win

　　Cithaeron in an hour ere the froth

　　Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun

　　Ceased from the treading！ ay， before the flickering⁸⁵ lamp of dawn

　　Has scared the hooting⁸⁶ owlet to its nest，

　　And warned the bat to close its filmy vans，

　　Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her breast

　　Will filch⁸⁷ their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans

　　So softly that the little nested thrush

　　Will never wake， and then with shrilly⁸⁹ laugh and leap will rush

　　Down the green valley where the fallen dew

　　Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store，

　　Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew

　　Trample⁹⁰ the loosestrife down along the shore，

　　And where their horned master sits in state

　　Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate⁹²！

　　Sing on！ and soon with passion-wearied face

　　Through the cool leaves Apollo's lad will come，

　　The Tyrian prince his bristled⁹³ boar will chase

　　Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom，

　　And ivory-limbed， grey-eyed， with look of pride，

　　After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin⁹⁴ maid will ride.

　　Sing on！ and I the dying boy will see

　　Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell

　　That overweighs the jacinth， and to me

　　The wretched Cyprian her woe⁹⁵ will tell，

　　And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes，

　　And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove⁹⁶ where Adon lies！

　　Cry out aloud on Itys！ memory

　　That foster-brother of remorse⁹⁷ and pain

　　Drops poison in mine ear， - O to be free，

　　To burn one's old ships！ and to launch again

　　Into the white-plumed battle of the waves

　　And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves！

　　O for Medea with her poppied spell！

　　O for the secret of the Colchian shrine！

　　O for one leaf of that pale asphodel

　　Which binds⁹⁸ the tired brows of Proserpine，

　　And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she

　　Dreams of the fields of Enna， by the far Sicilian sea，

　　Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased

　　From lily to lily on the level mead，

　　Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste

　　The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed，

　　Ere the black steeds had harried⁹⁹ her away

　　Down to the faint and flowerless land， the sick and sunless day.

　　O for one midnight and as paramour

　　The Venus of the little Melian farm！

　　O that some antique statue for one hour

　　Might wake to passion， and that I could charm

　　The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair，

　　Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair¹⁰⁰！

　　Sing on！ sing on！ I would be drunk with life，

　　Drunk with the trampled¹⁰¹ vintage of my youth，

　　I would forget the wearying wasted strife⁹¹，

　　The riven veil， the Gorgon¹⁰² eyes of Truth，

　　The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer，

　　The barren gifts， the lifted arms， the dull insensate air！

　　Sing on！ sing on！ O feathered Niobe，

　　Thou canst make sorrow beautiful， and steal

　　From joy its sweetest music， not as we

　　Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal

　　Our too untented wounds， and do but keep

　　Pain barricadoed in our hearts， and murder pillowed sleep.

　　Sing louder yet， why must I still behold¹⁰³

　　The wan⁴⁰ white face of that deserted¹⁰⁴ Christ，

　　Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold，

　　Whose smitten¹⁰⁵ lips my lips so oft have kissed，

　　And now in mute and marble misery¹⁰⁶

　　Sits in his lone²⁴ dishonoured¹⁰⁷ House and weeps， perchance for me？

　　O Memory cast down thy wreathed shell！

　　Break thy hoarse¹⁰⁸ lute³⁵ O sad Melpomene！

　　O Sorrow， Sorrow keep thy cloistered¹⁰⁹ cell

　　Nor dim with tears this limpid¹¹⁰ Castaly！

　　Cease， Philomel， thou dost the forest wrong

　　To vex its sylvan¹¹¹ quiet with such wild impassioned song！

　　Cease， cease， or if 't is anguish¹¹² to be dumb

　　Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air，

　　Whose jocund¹¹³ carelessness doth more become

　　This English woodland than thy keen despair，

　　Ah！ cease and let the north wind bear thy lay

　　Back to the rocky hills of Thrace， the stormy Daulian bay.

　　A moment more， the startled leaves had stirred，

　　Endymion would have passed across the mead

　　Moonstruck with love， and this still Thames had heard

　　Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed

　　To lure¹¹⁴ from her blue cave that Naiad maid

　　Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.

　　A moment more， the waking dove had cooed，

　　The silver daughter of the silver sea

　　With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed

　　Her wanton from the chase， and Dryope

　　Had thrust aside the branches of her oak

　　To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein¹¹⁵ in his snorting yoke¹¹⁶.

　　A moment more， the trees had stooped to kiss

　　Pale Daphne just awakening¹¹⁷ from the swoon

　　Of tremulous laurels¹¹⁸， lonely Salmacis

　　Had bared his barren beauty to the moon，

　　And through the vale with sad voluptuous¹¹⁹ smile

　　Antinous had wandered， the red lotus of the Nile

　　Down leaning from his black and clustering hair，

　　To shade those slumberous¹²⁰ eyelids¹²¹' caverned bliss¹²²，

　　Or else on yonder grassy¹²³ slope with bare

　　High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis

　　Had bade her hounds give tongue， and roused the deer

　　From his green ambuscade with shrill⁸⁸ halloo and pricking¹²⁴ spear.

　　Lie still， lie still， O passionate¹²⁵ heart， lie still！

　　O Melancholy¹²⁶， fold thy raven¹²⁷ wing！

　　O sobbing¹²⁸ Dryad， from thy hollow hill

　　Come not with such despondent¹²⁹ answering！

　　No more thou winged Marsyas complain，

　　Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain！

　　It was a dream， the glade is tenantless¹³⁰，

　　No soft Ionian laughter moves the air，

　　The Thames creeps on in sluggish¹³¹ leadenness，

　　And from the copse left desolate¹³² and bare

　　Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry，

　　Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody

　　So sad， that one might think a human heart

　　Brake in each separate note， a quality

　　Which music sometimes has， being the Art

　　Which is most nigh to tears and memory；

　　Poor mourning Philomel， what dost thou fear？

　　Thy sister doth not haunt these fields， Pandion is not here，

　　Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade，

　　No woven web of bloody¹³³ heraldries，

　　But mossy dells for roving comrades made，

　　Warm valleys where the tired student lies

　　With half-shut book， and many a winding walk

　　Where rustic¹³⁴ lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.

　　The harmless rabbit gambols¹³⁵ with its young

　　Across the trampled towing-path， where late

　　A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng¹³⁶

　　Cheered with their noisy cries the racing¹³⁷ eight；

　　The gossamer， with ravelled silver threads，

　　Works at its little loom⁵⁹， and from the dusky red-eaved sheds

　　Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out

　　Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating¹³⁸ flock

　　Back to their wattled sheep-cotes， a faint shout

　　Comes from some Oxford¹³⁹ boat at Sandford lock，

　　And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill，

　　And the dim lengthening¹⁴⁰ shadows flit like swallows up the hill.

　　The heron passes homeward to the mere¹⁴¹，

　　The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees，

　　Gold world by world the silent stars appear，

　　And like a blossom blown before the breeze

　　A white moon drifts across the shimmering¹⁴² sky，

　　Mute arbitress of all thy sad， thy rapturous threnody¹⁴³.

　　She does not heed¹⁴⁴ thee， wherefore should she heed，

　　She knows Endymion is not far away；

　　'Tis I， 'tis I， whose soul is as the reed

　　Which has no message of its own to play，

　　So pipes another's bidding， it is I，

　　Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.

　　Ah！ the brown bird has ceased： one exquisite¹⁴⁵ trill

　　About the sombre woodland seems to cling

　　Dying in music， else the air is still，

　　So still that one might hear the bat's small wing

　　Wander and wheel above the pines， or tell

　　Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell's brimming cell.

　　And far away across the lengthening wold，

　　Across the willowy flats and thickets¹⁴⁶ brown，

　　Magdalen's tall tower tipped with tremulous gold

　　Marks the long High Street of the little town，

　　And warns me to return； I must not wait，

　　Hark ！ 't is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church

　　gate.

 

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