Collected Works (Vol. I)

114 MYSTERIES: LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC Passionate roses I seek not, whose glories Now are too fierce for the spring, While the white flames of the frost flake that hoar is Flicker, on wing. Only a primrose, a violet laden With the pale perfume of dawn ; Only a snowdrop, my delicate maiden ; These have no thorn. Old-fashioned love, yet you feel it a fountain Springing for ever, most pure ; Old-fashioned love, yet as adamant mountain Solid and sure. Yes, tender thoughts on your lips will be breaking By-and-by into a smile ; Love, ere he springs up divine at his waking, Slumbers awhile. So, my kissed snowdrop, you took its white blossom Tenderly into your hand, Kissed it three times, wear it yet in your bosom— I understand. ODE TO POESY. Unrro what likeness shall I liken thee, O moon-wrought maiden of my dewy sleep? For thou art Queen of Thoughts, and unto me Sister and Bride; the worn earth’s echoes leap Because thy holy name is Poesy. Whereto art thou most like? Thou art a Dian, crescent o’er the sea That beats sonorous on the craggy shore, Or shakes the frail earth-dyke. So calm and still and far, that never more Thy silken song shall quiver through the land ; Only by coral isle, by lonely strand Where no man dwells, thy voice re-wakens wild and grand. Thou art an Aphrodite. From the foam Of golden grape and red thou risest up Immaculate ; thou hast an ebon comb Of shade and silence, and a jasper cup Wherein are mingled all desires. Thine home Is in the forest shade. Thy pale feet kiss the daffodils ; they roam By moss-grown springs, and shake the bluebell tips. Each flower of the deep glade Has whispered kisses for thy listening lips, While Eos blushes in the sky, to find A fairer, queenlier maiden, and as kind To man and maid, whose eyes are lit by the same mind. Thou hast, as Pallas hath, a polished shield, Whose Gorgon-head is Hatred, and asword Sharper than Love’s. ‘Thy wisdom is revealed To them who love, but thou hast aye ab- horred The children of revenge ; to them is sealed Thy book, so clear to me. Thy book where seven sins their sceptres wield, And seven sorrows track them, and one joy Cancels their infamy ; Shame and regret are fused to an alloy, Whose drossy weight sinks down and is consumed, While o’er the ruddy metal is relumed A purer flame of peace, with knowledge now perfumed. Thy ways are very bitter. Not one rose Twines in the crown of thorns thy spouse must wear ; There is no Lethe for the scoffs, the blows, Nor find they a Cyrenian ! anywhere Amid the mob, to lift my cross, to share Its burden: not one friend Whose love were silence, whose affection knows To press my hand and close my dying eyes There, at the endless end. I am alone on earth, and from the skies 1 Simon the Cyrenian, who bore the cross of Christ.