Underwoods | Page 7

hope and terror moved.
And thou
hast heard of yore the Blatant Beast,
And Roland's horn, and that
war-scattering shout
Of all-unarmed Achilles, aegis-crowned
And
perilous lands thou sawest, sounding shores
And seas and forests
drear, island and dale
And mountain dark. For thou with Tristram
rod'st
Or Bedevere, in farthest Lyonesse.
Thou hadst a booth in Samarcand, whereat
Side-looking Magians
trafficked; thence, by night,
An Afreet snatched thee, and with wings
upbore
Beyond the Aral mount; or, hoping gain,
Thou, with a jar of
money, didst embark,
For Balsorah, by sea. But chiefly thou
In that
clear air took'st life; in Arcady
The haunted, land of song; and by the
wells

Where most the gods frequent. There Chiron old,
In the
Pelethronian antre, taught thee lore:
The plants, he taught, and by the
shining stars
In forests dim to steer. There hast thou seen
Immortal
Pan dance secret in a glade,
And, dancing, roll his eyes; these, where
they fell,
Shed glee, and through the congregated oaks
A flying

horror winged; while all the earth
To the god's pregnant footing
thrilled within.
Or whiles, beside the sobbing stream, he breathed,

In his clutched pipe unformed and wizard strains
Divine yet brutal;
which the forest heard,
And thou, with awe; and far upon the plain

The unthinking ploughman started and gave ear.
Now things there are that, upon him who sees,
A strong vocation lay;
and strains there are
That whoso hears shall hear for evermore.
For
evermore thou hear'st immortal Pan
And those melodious godheads,
ever young
And ever quiring, on the mountains old.
What was this earth, child of the gods, to thee?
Forth from thy
dreamland thou, a dreamer, cam'st
And in thine ears the olden music
rang,
And in thy mind the doings of the dead,
And those heroic
ages long forgot.
To a so fallen earth, alas! too late,
Alas! in evil
days, thy steps return,
To list at noon for nightingales, to grow
A
dweller on the beach till Argo come
That came long since, a lingerer
by the pool
Where that desired angel bathes no more.
As when the Indian to Dakota comes,
Or farthest Idaho, and where he
dwelt,
He with his clan, a humming city finds;
Thereon awhile,
amazed, he stares, and then
To right and leftward, like a questing dog,

Seeks first the ancestral altars, then the hearth
Long cold with rains,
and where old terror lodged,
And where the dead. So thee undying
Hope,
With all her pack, hunts screaming through the years:
Here,
there, thou fleeest; but nor here nor there
The pleasant gods abide, the
glory dwells.
That, that was not Apollo, not the god.
This was not Venus, though
she Venus seemed
A moment. And though fair yon river move,
She,
all the way, from disenchanted fount
To seas unhallowed runs; the
gods forsook
Long since her trembling rushes; from her plains

Disconsolate, long since adventure fled;

And now although the
inviting river flows,
And every poplared cape, and every bend
Or

willowy islet, win upon thy soul
And to thy hopeful shallop whisper
speed;
Yet hope not thou at all; hope is no more;
And O, long since
the golden groves are dead
The faery cities vanished from the land!
XVI - TO W. E. HENLEY
The year runs through her phases; rain and sun,
Springtime and
summer pass; winter succeeds;
But one pale season rules the house of
death.
Cold falls the imprisoned daylight; fell disease
By each lean
pallet squats, and pain and sleep
Toss gaping on the pillows.
But O
thou!
Uprise and take thy pipe. Bid music flow,
Strains by good
thoughts attended, like the spring
The swallows follow over land and
sea.
Pain sleeps at once; at once, with open eyes,
Dozing despair
awakes. The shepherd sees
His flock come bleating home; the
seaman hears
Once more the cordage rattle. Airs of home!
Youth,
love and roses blossom; the gaunt ward
Dislimns and disappears, and,
opening out,
Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond
Of
mountains.
Small the pipe; but oh! do thou,
Peak-faced and
suffering piper, blow therein
The dirge of heroes dead; and to these
sick,
These dying, sound the triumph over death.
Behold! each
greatly breathes; each tastes a joy
Unknown before, in dying; for each
knows
A hero dies with him - though unfulfilled,
Yet conquering
truly - and not dies in vain
So is pain cheered, death comforted; the house
Of sorrow smiles to
listen. Once again -
O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard
And the
deliverer, touch the stops again!
XVII - HENRY JAMES
Who comes to-night? We ope the doors in vain.
Who comes? My
bursting walls, can you contain
The presences that now together
throng
Your narrow entry, as with flowers and song,

As with the air
of life, the breath of talk?
Lo, how these fair immaculate women walk


Behind their jocund maker; and we see
Slighted DE MAUVES,
and that far different she,
GRESSIE, the trivial sphynx; and to our
feast
DAISY and BARB and CHANCELLOR (she not least!)
With
all their silken, all their airy kin,
Do like unbidden angels enter in.

But he, attended by these shining names,
Comes (best of all) himself
- our welcome James.
XVIII - THE MIRROR SPEAKS
Where the bells peal far at sea
Cunning fingers fashioned me.
There
on palace walls I hung
While that Consuelo sung;
But I heard,
though I listened