In my ear is the moan of the pines--in my heart is the song of the sea, And I feel his salt breath on my face as he showers his kisses on me, And I hear the wild scream of the gulls, as they answer the call of the tide, And I watch the fair sails as they glisten like gems on the breast of a bride.
From the rock where I stand to the sun is a pathway of sapphire and gold, Like a waif of those Patmian visions that wrapt the lone seer of old, And it seems to my soul like an omen that calls me far over the sea-- But I think of a little white cottage and one that is dearest to me.
Westward ho! Far away to the East is a cottage that looks to the sh.o.r.e,-- Though each drop in the sea were a tear, as it was, I can see it no more; For the heart of its pride with the flowers of the "Vale of the Shadow" reclines, And--hush"d is the song of the sea and hoa.r.s.e is the moan of the pines.
CI. THE FORSAKEN GARDEN.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.--1837-
In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, At the sea-down"s edge between windward and lee, Wall"d round with rocks as an inland island, The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses The steep square slope of the blossomless bed Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses Now lie dead.
The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, To the low last edge of the long lone land.
If a step should sound or a word be spoken, Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest"s hand?
So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless, Through branches and briers if a man make way, He shall find no life but the sea-wind"s, restless Night and day.
The dense hard pa.s.sage is blind and stifled, That crawls by a track none turn to climb To the strait waste place that the years have rifled Of all but the thorns that are touch"d not of time.
The thorns he spares when the rose is taken; The rocks are left when he wastes the plain.
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, These remain.
Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not; As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry; From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not, Could she call, there were never a rose to reply.
Over the meadows that blossom and wither Rings but the note of sea-bird"s song; Only the sun and the rain come hither All year long.
The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath.
Only the wind here hovers and revels In a round where life seems barren as death.
Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, Haply, of lovers none ever will know, Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping Years ago.
Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look thither,"
Did he whisper? "Look forth from the flowers to the sea; For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither, And men that love lightly may die--but we?"
And the same wind sang and the same waves whiten"d, And or ever the garden"s last petals were shed, In the lips that had whisper"d, the eyes that had lighten"d, Love was dead.
Or they lov"d their life through, and then went whither?
And were one to the end--but what end who knows?
Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose.
Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them?
What love was ever as deep as a grave?
They are loveless now as the gra.s.s above them Or the wave.
All are at one now, roses and lovers, Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea.
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers In the air now soft with a summer to be.
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep, When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter We shall sleep.
Here death may deal not again for ever; Here change may come not till all change end.
From the graves they have made they shall rise up never, Who have left nought living to ravage and rend.
Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, When the sun and the rain live, these shall be; Till a last wind"s breath upon all these blowing Roll the sea.
Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble, Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, Here now in his triumph where all things falter, Stretch"d out on the spoils that his own hand spread, As a G.o.d self-slain on his own strange altar, Death lies dead.
CII. A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH OF THE SPANISH ARMADA.
(BALLADE.)
AUSTIN DOBSON.--1840-
King Philip had vaunted his claims; He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to f.a.got and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main; But we had bold Neptune to back us,-- And where are the galleons of Spain?
His carackes were christen"d of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, He had thought like an egg-sh.e.l.l to crack us; Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,-- For where are the galleons of Spain?
Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some l.u.s.tier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain; Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!-- But where are the galleons of Spain?
ENVOY.
GLORIANA!--the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain; He must reach us before he can rack us, ...
And where are the galleons of Spain?
_He lives not best who dreads the coming pain And shunneth each delight desirable:_ FLEE THOU EXTREMES, _this word alone is plain, Of all that G.o.d hath given to Man to spell!_
ANDREW LANG.--1844.
_From Sonnets from the Antique._
CIII. CIRCE.
(TRIOLET.)
AUSTIN DOBSON.
In the School of Coquettes Madame Rose is a scholar:-- O, they fish with all nets In the School of Coquettes!
When her brooch she forgets "Tis to show her new collar; In the School of Coquettes Madame Rose is a scholar!