The Poems of William Watson | Page 7

wild light at golden intervals: Yet, for the ache your
absence leaves, O friends, Earth's lifeless pageantries are poor amends.

IRELAND
(DECEMBER 1, 1890)
In the wild and lurid desert, in the thunder-travelled ways, 'Neath the
night that ever hurries to the dawn that still delays, There she clutches
at illusions, and she seeks a phantom goal With the unattaining passion

that consumes the unsleeping soul: And calamity enfolds her, like the
shadow of a ban, And the niggardness of Nature makes the misery of
man: And in vain the hand is stretched to lift her, stumbling in the
gloom, While she follows the mad fen-fire that conducts her to her
doom.

THE LUTE-PLAYER
She was a lady great and splendid, I was a minstrel in her halls. A
warrior like a prince attended Stayed his steed by the castle walls.
Far had he fared to gaze upon her. "O rest thee now, Sir Knight," she
said. The warrior wooed, the warrior won her, In time of snowdrops
they were wed. I made sweet music in his honour, And longed to strike
him dead.
I passed at midnight from her portal, Throughout the world till death I
rove: Ah, let me make this lute immortal With rapture of my hate and
love!

"AND THESE--ARE THESE INDEED THE END"
And these--are these indeed the end, This grinning skull, this heavy
loam? Do all green ways whereby we wend Lead but to yon ignoble
home?
Ah well! Thine eyes invite to bliss; Thy lips are hives of summer still. I
ask not other worlds while this Proffers me all the sweets I will.

THE RUSS AT KARA
O King of kings, that watching from Thy throne Sufferest the monster
of Ust-Kara's hold, With bosom than Siberia's wastes more cold, And
hear'st the wail of captives crushed and prone, And sett'st no sign in
heaven! Shall naught atone For their wild pangs whose tale is yet
scarce told, Women by uttermost woe made deadly bold, In the far
dungeon's night that hid their moan? Why waits Thy shattering arm,
nor smites this Power Whose beak and talons rend the unshielded
breast, Whose wings shed terror and a plague of gloom, Whose ravin is
the hearts of the oppressed; Whose brood are hell-births--Hate that
bides its hour, Wrath, and a people's curse that loathe their doom?

LIBERTY REJECTED
About this heart thou hast Thy chains made fast, And think'st thou I
would be Therefrom set free, And forth unbound be cast?
The ocean would as soon Entreat the moon Unsay the magic verse That
seals him hers From silver noon to noon.
She stooped her pearly head Seaward, and said: "Would'st thou I gave
to thee Thy liberty, In Time's youth forfeited?"
And from his inmost hold The answer rolled: "Thy bondman to remain
Is sweeter pain, Dearer an hundredfold."

LIFE WITHOUT HEALTH
Behold life builded as a goodly house And grown a mansion ruinous
With winter blowing through its crumbling walls! The master paceth up
and down his halls, And in the empty hours Can hear the tottering of
his towers And tremor of their bases underground. And oft he starts and
looks around At creaking of a distant door Or echo of his footfall on the
floor, Thinking it may be one whom he awaits And hath for many days
awaited, Coming to lead him through the mouldering gates Out
somewhere, from his home dilapidated.

TO A FRIEND
CHAFING AT ENFORCED IDLENESS FROM INTERRUPTED
HEALTH
Soon may the edict lapse, that on you lays This dire compulsion of
infertile days, This hardest penal toil, reluctant rest! Meanwhile I count
you eminently blest, Happy from labours heretofore well done, Happy
in tasks auspiciously begun. For they are blest that have not much to
rue-- That have not oft mis-heard the prompter's cue, Stammered and
stumbled and the wrong parts played, And life a Tragedy of Errors
made.

"WELL HE SLUMBERS, GREATLY SLAIN"
Well he slumbers, greatly slain, Who in splendid battle dies; Deep his
sleep in midmost main Pillowed upon pearl who lies.
Ease, of all good gifts the best, War and wave at last decree: Love
alone denies us rest, Crueller than sword or sea.

AN EPISTLE
(To N.A.)
So, into Cornwall you go down, And leave me loitering here in town.
For me, the ebb of London's wave, Not ocean-thunder in Cornish cave.
My friends (save only one or two) Gone to the glistening marge, like
you,-- The opera season with blare and din Dying sublime in
_Lohengrin_,-- Houses darkened, whose blinded panes All thoughts,
save of the dead, preclude,-- The parks a puddle of tropic rains,--
Clubland a pensive solitude,-- For me, now you and yours are flown,
The fellowship of books alone!
For you, the