Accolon of Gaul, with Other Poems

LOVELINESS

IWHEN I fare forth to kiss the eyes of Spring,On ways, which arch gold sunbeams and pearl budsEmbraced, two whispers we search – wanderingBy goblin forests and by girlish floodsDeep in the hermit-holy solitudes —For stalwart Dryads romping in a ring;Firm limbs an oak-bark-brown, and hair – wild woodsHave perfumed – loops of radiance; and they,Most coyly pleasant, as we linger by,Pout dimpled cheeks, more rose than rosiest sky,Honeyed; and us good-hearted laughter flingLike far-out reefs that flute melodious spray.IIThen we surprise each Naiad ere she slips —Nude at her toilette – in her fountain's glass,With damp locks dewy, and large godlike hipsCool-glittering; but discovered, when – alas!From green, indented moss and plushy grass, —Her great eyes' pansy-black reproaching, – dipsShe white the cloven waters ere we pass:And a broad, orbing ripple makes to hideFrom our desirous gaze provoked what pathShe gleaming took; what haunt she bashful hathIn minnowy freshness, where her murmurous lipsBubbling make merry 'neath the rocky tide.IIIOft do we meet the Oread whose eyesAre dew-drops where twin heavens shine confessed;She, all the maiden modesty's surpriseBlushing her temples, – to deep loins and breastTempestuous, brown bewildering tresses pressed, —Stands one scared moment's moiety, in wiseOf some delicious dream, then shrinks distressed,Like some weak wind that, haply heard, is gone,In rapport with shy Silence to make sound;So, like storm sunlight, bares clean limbs to boundA thistle's flashing to a woody rise,A graceful glimmer up the ferny lawn.IVHear Satyrs and Sylvanus in sad shadesOf dozy dells pipe: Pan and Fauns hark danceWith rattling hoofs dim in low, mottled glades:Hidden in spice-bush-bowered banks, perchance,Mark Slyness waiting with an animal glanceThe advent of some Innocence, who wadesThro' thigh-deep flowers, naked as Romance,In braided shadows, when two hairy armsHug her unconscious beauty panting white;Till tearful terror, struggling into might,Beats the brute brow resisting; yields and fades,Exhausted, to the grim Lust her rich charms.

THE LAST SCION OF THE HOUSE

OF CLARE

Year 13 – BARBICAN, bartizan, battlement,With the Abergavenny mountains blent,Look, from the Raglan tower of Gwent,My lord Hugh Clifford's ancient homeShows, clear morns of the Spring or Summer,Thrust out like thin flakes o' a silver foamFrom a climbing cloud, for the hills gloom glummer,Being shaggy with heath, yon. – I was his page;A favorite then; and he of that ageWhen a man will love and be loved again,Or die in the wars or a monastery:Or toil till he stifle his heart's hard pain,Or drink, drug his hopes and his lost love bury.I was his page; and often we faredThro' the Clare desmene in Autumn hawking —If the baron had known how he would have glaredFrom their bushy brows eyes dark with mocking!– That of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean —Had growled to his yeomen, "A score! mount, Keene!Forth and spit me this Clifford, or hangWith his crop-eared page to the closest oak!"For he and the Cliffords had ever a fangIn the other's side… but I see him chokeAnd strangle with wrath when his hawker told —If he told! – how we met on that flowery woldHis daughter, sweet Hortense of Clare, the dayHer hooded tiercel its brails did burstTo trail with its galling jesses away;An untrained haggard the falconer cursed,Vain whistled to lure; when the eyas spedSlant, low and heavily overheadBy us; and Sir Hugh, – who had just then castHis peregrine fierce at a heron-quarry, —In his stirrups rising, thus – as it passed,By the jesses caught and to her did carry,Lingering slender and tall by a roseWhence she pulled the berries – But no two foesHer eyes and Sir Hugh's! – And I swear each feltA song in their hearts! – For I heard him quaverSomewhat and then – by Mary! – he knelt! —And the Lady herself in her words did waverAnd wonder with smiles. Then daintily tookThe hawk on her fist where it pruned and shookIts callowness ragged, as Hugh did seizeSoftly the other hand long and white, —Reached forth to him craving him rise from his knees, —And mouthed with moist kisses an hundred quite.Tho' she blushed up burning, no frowned "Beware!"But seemed so happy! when crushing thro' —Her sturdy retainer with swarthy stare —The underwoods burst; and her maiden crewDrew near them naming her name, and cameWith leaves and dim Autumn blossoms aflame. —"Their words?" I know not! for how should I? —I paged my master but was no spy.Nothings, I think, as all lovers', you know;Yet how should I hear such whispered low,Quick by the wasted woodland yellow?When up thro' the brush thrashed that burly fellowWith his ale-coarse face, and so made a pauseIn the pulse of their words, there my lord Sir HughStood with the soil on his knee: No causeHad he – but his hanger he halfway drew —Then paused, thrust it clap in its sheath againAnd bowed to the Lady and strode away;Up, vault, on his steed – and we rode amainGay to his towers that merry day.He loved and was loved, – why, I knew! – for look,All other sports for the chase he forsook;To ride in the Raglan marches and hawkAnd to hunt and to wander. And found a lair,In the Strongbow forest, of bush and of rock,Of moss and thick ferns; where Hortense of Clare,How often I wis not, met him by chance —Perhaps! – Sweet sorceress out of romance,Those tomes of Geoffrey – for she was fair!Her large, warm eyes and hair… ah, hair,How may one picture or liken it!With the golden gloss of its full brown, fitFor the Viviane face of lovable whiteBeneath; – like a star that a cloud of nightStops over to threaten but never will drenchIts tremulous beauty with mists that quench. —Heigho! – but they ceased, those meetings. I wotWatched of the baron, his menial crew;For she loved too well to have once forgotThe place and the time of their trysting true.But she came not – ah! and again came not:"Why and when?" would question Sir HughIn his labored scrawls a crevice of rock —The lovers' post – in its coigne would lock.Until near Yule Love gat them againA twilight tryst – by frowardness sure. —They met. And that day was gray with rain —Or snow, and the wind did ever endureA long, bleak moaning thorough the wood,Smarted the cheek and chapped i' the blood;And a burne in the forest cried "sob and sob,"And whimpered forever a chopping throbThro' the rope-taunt boughs like a thing pursued.– And there it was that he learned how she(My faith! how it makes me burn and quiverTo think what a miserable despot he —Lord Richard Strongbow, aye and everTo his daughter was!) forsooth! must wedWith an Eastern Earl – some Lovell: one whom(That God in His mercy had smote him dead!)Hortense of Clare – but in baby bloom —Never had mirrored with maiden eyes.Sealed over a baby to strengthen some ties —Of power or wealth – had been bartered thenAnd sold and purchased, and now … but whenTo her lover, the Clifford, she told this – thereHe had faced with his love the talons of Death —Only for her, who did stay with a stareOf reproach all his heat and say in a breath,"Is love, that thou sware to me aye and so often,To live too feeble or – how? – doth it softenAnd weaken away and – to die? – why die? —Live and be strong! and this is why." —Her words are glued here so!.. I rememberAll as well as that sullen December,That blustered and bullied about them andSpat stiff its spiteful and cold-cutting snowWhere they talked there dreamily hand in hand,While the rubbing boughs clashed rattling low.Her last words these, "By curfew sureOn Christmas eve at the postern door."And we were there, and a void horse too:Armed: for a journey I hardly knewWhither, but why you well can guess.I could have uttered a certain name —Our comrade's sure – of what loveliness!Waited with love, impatience aflame.While Raglan bulged its baronial girthTo roar to its battlements Yule and song;Retainers loud rollicked in wassail and mirthWhere the mistletoe 'round the vast hearths hung,And holly beberried the elden wallOf curious oak in the banqueting hall.And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turnedO'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burnedWith flesh; where the whole wild-boar was roastedAnd the dun-deer flanks and the roebuck haunches;Fat tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted,Old casks of wine were broached for paunchesOf the vassals that reveled in bower and stall;Pale pages who diced and bluff henchmen who quarr'ledOr swore in their cups, while lean mastiffs all,O'er bones of the feast in their kennels snarled;For Hortense – drink! drink! – by the Virgin's leave,Were wed to this Lovell this Christmas Eve."Was she long – Did she come?"… By that postern weLike shadows lurked. Said my lord Sir Hugh:"Yon tower, remember! – that casement, see! —When a stealthy light in its slit burns blueAnd signals thrice slowly, thus – 'tis she."And about his person his gaberdine drew,For the wind it hugged and the snow beat thro'.Did she come? – We had watched for an hour or twainEre that light burned there in the central paneAnd was flourished thrice and departed so.Then closer we packed to the postern portalHorses and all in the stinging snow.Stiff with the cold was I. – ImmortalMinutes we waited breath-bated and listenedShuddering there in the gusty gale.Whizzing o'er parapets sifted and glistenedWild drift, thro' battlements hissed in a veil.Quoth my lord Sir Hugh, for his love was a-heat,"She feels for the spring in the hidden panel'Neath the tapestry … ah! thou hast pressed it, sweet!– How black gulps open the secret channel!Now cautiously step, and thy bridal garbSwirled warm with a mantle o' fur … she plantsOne foot – then a pause – on the stair – So, Barb,So! – If the tempest that barks and pantsWould throttle itself with its yelps! then IMight hear but one footstep echo and singDown the ugly … there! 'tis her fingers tryThe massy bolts which the rust makes cling."But ever some whim of the wind that shookThe clanging ring of a creaking hookIn the buttress or wall; and we waited soTill the East grew gray. Did she come? – ah, no!I must tell you why, and enough: 'Tis saidOn the eve of the marriage she fled the sideOf the baron, the bridegroom too she fled,With a mischievous laugh, "I'll hide! I'll hide!Seek! and be sure to seek well!" and ledA wild chase after her, but defiedAll search for – a score and ten more years,And the laughter of Yule was changed to tears.But they searched and the snow was bleared with the glareOf torches that hurried thro' chamber and stair;And tower and court re-echoed her name,But she laughed no answer and never came.So over the channel to France with his KingAnd the Black Prince, sailed to the wars – to deadenThe ache of the mystery – Hugh that Spring,And fell at Poitiers: for his loss lay leadenOn hope, and his life was a weary sadness,So he flung it away with a very gladness.And the baron died – and the bridegroom, well, —Unlucky that bridegroom, sooth! – to tellOf him there is nothing. The baron died;The last of the Strongbows he, gramercy!And the Clare estate with its wealth and its prideDevolved to the Bloets, Walter or Percy.Ten years and a score thereafter. And theyRansacked the old castle and mark! – one dayIn a lonesome tower uprummaged a chestFrom Flanders, of sinister ebon, carvedSardonic with masks 'round an olden crest,Gargoyle faces distorted and starved:Fast fixed with a spring which they forced and lo!When they opened it – ha, Hortense! – or, no! —Fantastic a skeleton jeweled and wreathedWith flowers of dust, and a mineverAbout it hugged, which quaint richness sheathedOf a bridal raiment and lace with fur.– I'd have given such years of my life – yes, well! —As were left me then so her lover, Hugh,For such time breathed as it took one to tellHow she forever, deemed false, was true!He'd have known how it was, "For, you see, in gropingFor the puny spring of that panel – hopingAnd fearing as nearer and nearer grewThe boisterous scramble – why, out she blewHer windy taper and quick – in this chestWary would lie for – a minute, mayhap,Till the hurry all passed; but the death-lock pressed– Ere her heart was aware – with a hungry snap."

ON THE JELLICO-SPUR

To my Friend, John Fox, JrYOU remember, the deep mist, —Climbing to the Devil's Den —Blue beneath us in the glenAnd above us amethyst,Throbbed and circled and awayThro' the wild-woods opposite,Torn and shattered, morning-lit,Scurried up a dewy gray.Vague as in Romance we sawFrom the fog one riven trunk,Its huge horny talons shrunk,Thrust a hungry dragon's claw.And we climbed two hours thro'The dawn-dripping Jellicoes,To that wooded rock that showsUndulating peaks of blue:The vast Cumberlands that sleep,Weighed with soaring forests, farTo the concave welkin's bar,Leagues on leagues of purple sweep.Range exalted over rangeBillowed their enormous spines,And we heard the priestly pinesHum the wisdom of their change.We were sons of Nature then;She had taken us to her,Closer drawn by brier and burr,There on lonely Devil's Den.We were pupils of her moods:Taught the beauties of her loinsIn those bloom-anointed coignes, —Love in her eternal woods:How she bore or flower or bud;Pithed the wiry sapling-oak;In the long vine zeal awokeAye to climb a leafy flood.Her waste fantasies of birth:Sponge-like exudations fair —Dainty fungi everywhereBulging from the loamy earth.Coral-vegetable things;Crystals clamily exhaled;Bulbous, marble-ribbed and scaled,Vip'rous colored; then close ringsOf the Indian Pipe that cleftPink and white the woodland lax, —Blossoms of a natural waxThe brown mountain-fairies left.We on that parched precipice,Stretched beneath the chestnuts' burrs,Breathed the balsam of the firs,Felt the blue sky like a kiss.Soft that heaven; stainless asThe grand woodlands lunging on,Wound majestic in the sun,Or as our devotion was!Freedom sat there cragged we saw,Freedom whom hoarse forests sang;Heaven-browed her eyes, whence sprangAudience august with law.Wildernesses, from her hipsSprung the giant forests there,Tossed the cataracts from her hair,Thunders lightened from her lips.Oft some scavenger, with vaneMotionless, above we knewWheeled thro' altitudes of blueBy his rapid shadow's stain.Or some cloud of sunny white, —Puffed a lazy drift of pearl, —Balmy breezes o'er would whirlShot with coruscating light.So we dreamed an hour uponThose warm rocks, dry, lichen-scabbed.Lounged beneath long leaves that dabbedAt us coins of shade and sun.Then arose and down some gorgeMade a bowldered torrent broadThe hurled pathway of our roadTumbled down the mountain large.At that farm-house, which you know,Where old-fashioned flowers spunGay rag-carpets in the sun,By green apple-boughs built low,Rested from our hot descent;One deep draught of cider cool,Unctuous, our fierce veins to dullAt old Hix's eloquent…On Wolf Mountain died the light;A colossal blossom, rayedWith rent petaled clouds that played'Round a calyxed fury bright.Down the moist mint-scented valeTo the mining camp we turned,Thro' the twilight faint discernedWith its crowded cabins pale.Ah! those nights! – We wandered forthOn some shadow-haunted pathWhen the moon was late and ratheThe large stars; sowed south and north,Clustered bursting heavens down:And the milky zodiac,Rolled athwart the belted black,Myriad-million-moted shone.And in dreams we sauntered tillIn the valley pale beneath,From a dew-drop's vapored breathTo faint ghosts, there gathered still,Grave creations weird of mist:Then we knew the moonrise near,As with necromance the airPulsed to pearl and amethyst.Shrilled the insects of the dusk,Grated, buzzed and strident sungTill each leaf seemed tuned and strungFor high Pixy music brusque.Stealing steps and stealthy sighsAs of near unhallowed things,Rustled hair or fluttered wings,Seemed about us; then the eyesOf plumed phantom warriorsBurned mesmeric from some bushMournful in the goblin hush,Then materialized to stars.Mantled mists like ambushed braves,Chiefed by some swart Blackfoot tall,Stole along each forest wall —Phosphorescent moony waves.Then the moon rose; from some cupEach hill's bowl, – magnetic shine,Mist and silence poured like wine, —Brimmed a monster goblet up.Ingot from lost orient mines,Delved by humpbacked gnomes of Night,Full her orb loomed, nacreous white,O'er Pine Mountain's druid pines.As thro' fragmentary fleeceHer circumference polished broke,Orey-seamed, about us wokeMyths of Italy and Greece.Then – a chanson serenade —You, rich-voiced, to your guitarTo our goddess in that starSang "Ne Tempo" from the glade.

SEÑORITA

AN agate black thy roguish eyesClaim no proud lineage of skies,No velvet blue, but of sweet Earth,Rude, reckless witchery and mirth.Looped in thy raven hair's repose,A hot aroma, one tame roseDies envious of that beauty where, —By being near which, – it is fair.Thy ears, – two dainty bits of songOf unpretending charm, which wrongWould jewels rich, whose restless fireCourts coarse attention, – such inspire.Slim hands, that crumple listless laceAbout thy white breasts' swelling grace,And falter at thy samite throat,To such harmonious efforts float.Seven stars stop o'er thy balconyCored in taunt heaven's canopy;No moon flows up the satin nightIn pearl-pierced raiment spun of light.From orange orchards dark in dewVague, odorous lips the West wind blew,Or thou, a new AngelicaFrom Ariosto, breath'd'st Cathay.Oh, stoop to me and speaking reachMy soul like song, that learned low speechFrom some sad instrument, who knows?Or bloom, – a dulcimer or rose.

LEANDER TO HERO

IBROWS wan thro' blue-black tressesWet with sharp rain and kisses;Locks loose the sea-wind scatters,Like torn wings fierce for flight;Cold brows, whose sadness flatters,One kiss and then – good-night.IICan this thy love undo meWhen in the heavy waves?Nay; it must make unto meTheir groaning backs but slaves!For its magic doth indue meWith strength o'er all their graves.IIIWeep not as heavy-heartedBefore I go! For thouWilt follow as we parted —A something hollow-hearted,Dark eyes whence cold tears started,Gray, ghostly arms out-dartedTo take me, even as now,To drag me, their weak lover,To caves where sirens hover,Deep caves the dark waves cover,Down! throat and hair and brow.IVBut in thy sleep shalt follow —Thy bosom fierce to mine,Long arms wound warm and hollow, —In sleep, in sleep shalt follow, —To save me from the brine;Dim eyes on mine divine;Deep breath at mine like wine;Sweet thou, with dream-soft kissesTo dream me onward home,White in white foam that hisses,Love's creature safe in foam.VWhat, Hero, else for weepingThan long, lost hours of sleepingAnd vestal-vestured Dreams,Where thy Leander stoopingSighs; no dead eyelids drooping;No harsh, hard looks accusing;No curls with ocean oozing;But then as now he seems,Sweet-favored as can make himThy smile, which is a might,A hope, a god to take himThro' all this hell of night.VIThen where thy breasts are hollowOne kiss! one kiss! I go!Sweet soul! a kiss to followUp whence thy breasts bud hollow,Cheeks than wood-blossoms whiter,Eyes than dark waters brighterWherein the far stars glow.Look lovely when I leave thee! —I go, my love, I go!Look lovely, love, nor grieve thee,That I must leave thee so.

MUSAGETES

FOR the mountains' hoarse greetings came hollowFrom stormy wind-chasms and caves,And I heard their wild cataracts wallowHuge bulks in long spasms of waves,And that Demon said, "Lo! you must follow!And our path is o'er myriads of graves."Then I felt that the black earth was porousAnd rotten with worms and with bones;And I knew that the ground that now bore usWas cadaverous with Death's skeletons;And I saw horrid eyes, heard sonorousAnd dolorous gnashings and groans.But the night of the tempest and thunder,The might of the terrible skies,And the fire of Hell that, – coiled underThe hollow Earth, – smoulders and sighs,And the laughter of stars and their wonderMingled and mixed in its eyes.And we clomb – and the moon old and sterileClomb with us o'er torrent and scar!And I yearned towards her oceans of beryl,Wan mountains and cities of spar —"'Tis not well," that one said, "you're in perilOf falling and failing your star."And we clomb – through a murmur of pinions,Thin rattle of talons and plumes;And a sense as of Boreal dominionsClove down to the abysms and tombs;And the Night's naked, Ethiope minionsSwarmed on us in legions of glooms.And we clomb – till we stood at the portalOf the uttermost point of the peak,And it led with a step more than mortalFar upward some presence to seek;And I felt that this love was immortal,This love which had made me so weak.We had clomb till the limbo of spiritsOf darkness and crime deep belowSwung nebular; nor could we hear itsLost wailings and moanings of woe, —For we stood in a realm that inheritsA vanquishing virgin of snow.

THE QUARREL

COULD I divine how her gray eyesGat such cold haughtiness of skies;How, some wood-flower's shadow brown,Dimmed her fair forehead's wrath a frown;How, rippled sunshine blown thro' air,Tossed scorn her eloquence of hair;How to a folded bud againShe drew her blossomed lips' disdain;Naught deigning save eyes' utterance,Star-words, which quicker reach the sense;Then, afterwards, how melted thereThe austere woman to one tear;Then were I wise to know how grewThis star-stained miracle of blue,How God makes wild flowers out of dew.

THE MOOD O' THE EARTH

MY heart is high, is high, my dear,And the warm wind sunnily blows;My heart is high with a mood that's cheer,And burns like a sun-blown rose.My heart is high, is high, my dear,And the Heaven's deep skies are blue;My heart is high as the passionate year,And smiles like a bud in dew.My heart, my heart is high, my sweet,For wild is the smell o' the wood,That gusts in the breeze with a pulse o' heat,Mad heat that beats like a blood.My heart, my heart is high, my sweet,And the sense of summer is full;A sense of summer, – full fields of wheat,Full forests and waters cool.My heart is high, is high, my heart,As the bee's that groans and swinksIn the dabbled flowers that dart and partTo his woolly bulk when he drinks.My heart is high, is high, my heart, —Oh, sing again, O good, gray bird,That I may get that lilt by heart,And fit each note with a word.God's saints! I tread the air, my dear!Flow one with the running wind;And the stars that stare I swear, my dear,Right soon in my hair I'll find.To live high up a life of mistWith the white things in white skies,With their limbs of pearl and of amethyst,Who laugh blue humorous eyes!Or to creep and to suck like an elfin thingTo the aching heart of a rose;In the harebell's ear to cling and swingAnd whisper what no one knows!To live on wild honey as fresh as thinAs the rain that's left in a flower,And roll forth golden from feet to chinIn the god-flower's Danaë shower!Or free, full-throated curve back the throatWith a vigorous look at the blue,And sing right staunch with a lusty noteLike the hawk hurled where he flew!God's life! the blood of the Earth is mine!And the mood of the Earth I'll take,And brim my soul with her wonderful wine,And sing till my heart doth break!

A GRAY DAY

ILONG vollies of wind and of rainAnd the rain on the drizzled pane,And the eve falls chill and murk;But on yesterday's eve I knowHow a horned moon's thorn-like bowStabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow,Like a rich barbaric dirk.IINow thick throats of the snapdragons, —Who hold in their hues cool dawns,Which a healthy yellow paints, —Are filled with a sweet rain fineOf a jaunty, jubilant shine,A faery vat of rare wine,Which the honey thinly taints.IIINow dabble the poppies shrink,And the coxcomb and the pink;While the candytuft's damp crownDroops dribbled, low bowed i' the wet;And long spikes o' the mignonetteLittle musk-sacks open set,Which the dripping o' dew drags down.IVStretched taunt on the blades of grass,Like a gossamer-fibered glass,Which the garden-spider spun,The web, where the round rain clingsIn its middle sagging, swings; —A hammock for Elfin thingsWhen the stars succeed the sun.VAnd mark, where the pale gourd growsUp high as the clambering rose,How that tiger-moth is pressedTo the wide leaf's underside. —And I know where the red wasps hide,And the wild bees, – who defiedThe first strong gusts, – distressed.VIYet I feel that the gray will blowAside for an afterglow;And a breeze on a sudden tossDrenched boughs to a pattering show'rAthwart the red dusk in a glow'r,Big drops heard hard on each flow'rOn the grass and the flowering moss.VIIAnd then for a minute, may be, —A pearl – hollow worn – of the sea, —A glimmer of moon will smile;Cool stars rinsed clean on the dusk,A freshness of gathering muskO'er the showery lawns, as bruskAs spice from an Indian isle.