The Garden Of Eros

. IT is full summer now, the heart of June,
    Not yet the sun-burnt reapers are a-stir
  Upon the upland meadow where too soon
    Rich autumn time, the season's usurer,
  Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
  And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

  Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,
    That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
  To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
    The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,                        


  And like a strayed and wandering reveller
  Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June's messenger

  The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,
    One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
  Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
    Of their own loveliness some violets lie
  That will not look the gold sun in the face
  For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks it is a place

  Which should be trodden by Persephone
    When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!                    


  Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!
    The hidden secret of eternal bliss
  Known to the Grecian here a man might find,
  Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.

  There are the flowers which mourning Herakles
    Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,
  Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze
    Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,
  That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,
  And lilac lady's-smock,—but let them bloom alone, and leave      



  Yon spired holly-hock red-crocketed
    To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,
  Its little bellringer, go seek instead
    Some other pleasaunce; the anemone
  That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl
  Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl

  Their painted wings beside it,—bid it pine
    In pale virginity; the winter snow
  Will suit it better than those lips of thine
    Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go                      


  And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,
  Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.

  The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus
    So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet
  Whiter than Juno's throat and odorous
    As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet
  Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar
  For any dappled fawn,—pluck these, and those fond flowers which are

  Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon
    Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,                              


  That morning star which does not dread the sun,
    And budding marjoram which but to kiss
  Would sweeten Cytheræa's lips and make
  Adonis jealous,—these for thy head,—and for thy girdle take

  Yon curving spray of purple clematis
    Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,
  And fox-gloves with their nodding chalices,
    But that one narciss which the startled Spring
  Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard
  In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer's bird,      



  Ah! leave it for a subtle memory
    Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,
  When April laughed between her tears to see
    The early primrose with shy footsteps run
  From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,
  Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering
        gold.

  Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet
    As thou thyself, my soul's idolatry!
  And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet
    Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,                    


  For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride
  And vail its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.

  And I will cut a reed by yonder spring
    And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan
  Wonder what young intruder dares to sing
    In these still haunts, where never foot of man
  Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy
  The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.

  And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears
    Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,                          


  And why the hapless nightingale forbears
    To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone
  When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,
  And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.

  And I will sing how sad Proserpina
    Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,
  And lure the silver-breasted Helena
    Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,
  So shalt thou see that awful loveliness
  For which two mighty Hosts met fearfuly in war's abyss!            



  And then I 'll pipe to thee that Grecian tale
    How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,
  And hidden in a grey and misty veil
    Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun
  Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase
  Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.

  And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,
    We may behold Her face who long ago
  Dwelt among men by the Ægean sea,
    And whose sad house with pillaged portico                      



  And friezeless wall and columns toppled down
  Looms o'er the ruins of that fair and violet-cinctured town.

  Spirit of Beauty! tarry still a-while,
    They are not dead, thine ancient votaries,
  Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile
    Is better than a thousand victories,
  Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo
  Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few.

  Who for thy sake would give their manlihood
    And consecrate their being, I at least                          



  Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,
    And in thy temples found a goodlier feast
  Than this starved age can give me, spite of all
  Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.

  Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,
    The woods of white Colonos are not here,
  On our bleak hills the olive never blows,
    No simple priest conducts his lowing steer
  Up the steep marble way, nor through the town
  Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.        




  Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,
    Whose very name should be a memory
  To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest
    Beneath the Roman walls, and melody
  Still mourns her sweetest lyre, none can play
  The lute of Adonais, with his lips Song passed away.

  Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left
    One silver voice to sing his threnody,
  But ah! too soon of it we were bereft
    When on that riven night and stormy sea                        



  Panthea claimed her singer as her own,
  And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone,

  Save for that fiery heart, that morning star
    Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye
  Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war
    The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy
  Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring
  The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,

  And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,
   And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot                            



  In passionless and fierce virginity
    Hunting the tuskéd boar, his honied lute
  Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,
  And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.

  And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,
    And sung the Galilæan's requiem,
  That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine
    He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him
  Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,
  And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.        




  Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,
    It is not quenched the torch of poesy,
  The star that shook above the Eastern hill
    Holds unassailed its argent armoury
  From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—
  O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,

  Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer's child,
    Dear heritor of Spenser's tuneful reed,
  With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
    The weary soul of man in troublous need,                        



  And from the far and flowerless fields of ice
  Has brought fair flowers meet to make an earthly paradise.

  We know them all, Gudrun the strong men's bride,
    Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,
  How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
    And what enchantment held the king in thrall
  When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers
  That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,

  Long listless summer hours when the noon
    Being enamoured of a damask rose                                



  Forgets to journey westward, till the moon
    The pale usurper of its tribute grows
  From a thin sickle to a silver shield
  And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field

  Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,
    At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come
  Almost before the blackbird finds a mate
    And overstay the swallow, and the hum
  Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,
  Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,          




  And through their unreal woes and mimic pain
    Wept for myself, and so was purified,
  And in their simple mirth grew glad again;
    For as I sailed upon that pictured tide
  The strength and splendour of the storm was mine
  Without the storm's red ruin, for the singer is divine,

  The little laugh of water falling down
    Is not so musical, the clammy gold
  Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town
    Has less of sweetness in it, and the old                        



  Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady
  Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.

  Spirit of Beauty tarry yet a-while!
    Although the cheating merchants of the mart
  With iron roads profane our lovely isle,
    And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,
  Ay! though the crowded factories beget
  The blind-worm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!

  For One at least there is,—He bears his name
    From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—                            



  Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
    To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,
  Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien's snare,
  And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,

  Loves thee so well, that all the World for him
    A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,
  And Sorrow take a purple diadem,
    Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair
  Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be
  Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery                    




  Which Painters hold, and such the heritage
    This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,
  Being a better mirror of his age
    In all his pity, love, and weariness,
  Than those who can but copy common things,
  And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.

  But they are few, and all romance has flown,
    And men can prophesy about the sun,
  And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,
    Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,                    



  How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
  And that no more 'mid English reeds a Naïad shows her head.

  Methinks these new Actæons boast too soon
    That they have spied on beauty; what if we
  Have analyzed the rainbow, robbed the moon
    Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,
  Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope
  Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!

  What profit if this scientific age
    Burst through our gates with all its retinue                    



  Of modern miracles! Can it assuage
    One lover's breaking heart? what can it do
  To make one life more beautiful, one day
  More god-like in its period? but now the Age of Clay

  Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
    Hath borne again a noisy progeny
  Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth
    Hurls them against the august hierarchy
  Which sat upon Olympus, to the Dust
  They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must          




  Repair for judgment, let them, if they can,
    From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,
  Create the new Ideal rule for man!
    Methinks that was not my inheritance;
  For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul
  Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.

  Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away
    Her visage from the God, and Hecate's boat
  Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day
    Blew all its torches out: I did not note                        



  The waning hours, to young Endymions
  Time's palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!—

  Mark how the yellow iris wearily
    Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed
  By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,
    Who, like a blue vein on a girl's white wrist,
  Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,
  Which 'gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.

  Come let us go, against the pallid shield
    Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,                      



  The corn-crake nested in the unmown field
    Answers its mate, across the misty stream
  On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,
  And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,

  Scatters the pearléd dew from off the grass,
    In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,
  Who soon in gilded panoply will pass
    Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion
  Hung in the burning east, see, the red rim
  O'ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him      




  Already the shrill lark is out of sight,
    Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,—
  Ah! there is something more in that bird's flight
    Than could be tested in a crucible!—
  But the air freshens, let us go,—why soon
  The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!