王尔德《伊底斯的副歌》
蓝宝石色的天空静悄悄，点点红晕
就像洒下的血，或是教皇捧着的孽。
从他的黝黑的暗室到外边的阳台，
下面是黄铜的大门和拥挤的广场，
那里的喷泉似乎已经在欣喜若狂，
把它们银色的枪头抛洒在天空中，
还向东方和西方伸出纤弱的手臂，
却没有给不平静的土地带来静谧。
远方难道不是橙色的夕照在留停，
故意地逗弄初升的月亮那么澄莹，
月亮比罗马最壮丽的盛典还媚艳！
奇怪，一年前我曾跪拜红衣主教前，
他奉捧着圣体翻过了埃斯奎林山 ，
可现在，麦田里的罂粟花远胜它。
那边的豆田里蓝色绿色交相辉映，
阵雨过后枝叶上颤抖着露珠晶莹，
芳香的气息透过了这凉爽的傍晚，
比年轻祭助奉捧的玉香炉还芬苾，
头发灰白的祭司打开了圣盒水晶，
展示普通的粮食果酒创造的神体。
可怜的约翰兄弟 扯着嗓子唱弥撒，
唱跑了调音也不知晓，棕色的鸟
在他的头顶啾啾地叫，绿绿的草，
那震颤的歌喉，那歌声我曾听到，
在阿卡狄亚星光灿烂花烂漫的山冈，
那里撒拉米斯 的白沙与大海紧接壤。
燕子在屋檐下唧唧的叫声真动听，
割草人在磨镰刀，天色刚刚黎明，
欧鸽在咕咕地叫，挤奶女郎在起床，
她唱着欢乐的歌，看见奶牛瞪眼望，
大大的嘴流着涎水往前撅得老长，
哞哞叫着等在农家院落的柴扉旁。
肯特郡的牧地里黄色苜蓿真美妙，
掀动了新割的干草的风同样美妙，
骚动的蜂群的嗡嗡声也一样美妙，
围绕着椴树的鲜花在翩翩地起舞；
小母牛在牛圈里的呼吸也显美妙，
还有红墙边抽出嫩芽的无花果树。
聆听布谷鸟嘲弄春天非常的美妙，
再看那最后的紫罗兰在井边闲游，
聆听牧童达弗尼斯 唱歌同样美妙，
他唱的利努斯 的歌飘过阿卡狄亚
秀丽的山谷，穗儿黄澄澄的是稻谷，
欢快的收割人围绕着羊栏跳着舞。
与美丽善良的莉科丽斯 一起偎依
远处伊利里亚 的山谷真是美妙，
那里到处覆盖着紫红色的 叶枝，
我们同样可以消磨昏沉的夏日，
嬉戏和竞赛中吹奏我们的芦笛，
下面远处有紫色的海浪在荡激。
倘若有位长久隐身的神祇，穿着
银色的草鞋，踏上这芬芳的草地，
那将会更美妙；倘若有一支芦笛
附在他的双唇，绿油油的水草旁
有个牧神仰起头，啊，真是美妙，
看天上的牧人 挥鞭驱赶着白羊群。
为我歌唱吧，曲调婉转动听的天使 ，
诚然你所唱的都是你自己的挽歌！
向我倾诉把，你这不幸的讲述者，
讲述你自己的悲剧！不要断然蔑视
这陌生的地方，这英格兰的田与地，
许多美丽的花环产自我们的岛屿；
那些花环是古希腊的草原所不知，
年轻的少年整天在伊奥利亚 山谷
找寻的玫瑰，就像交际花喜爱嬉戏，
开放在我们的篱笆墙内：慷慨的美；
还有雪白的百合，伊利苏斯 未听说，
像星辰一样装点我们的河流和小溪；
蓝色的麦仙翁与碧绿的小麦相伴，
尽管它们的出现预示燕子飞向南，
它们的蓝帐篷不在阿提卡 的青藤；
甚至遍地猩红色的小草儿乱蓬蓬，
吸引着旅鸫鸟儿不停地蹦跳唱歌，
在阿卡狄亚都将是外来的入侵者；
还有许多未唱的挽歌沉眠于芦苇，
生长在我们蜿蜒的泰晤士的周围，
若把它们唤醒，西琳克丝 的悲歌
也不如它优美，蜜蜂欢欣的果树园，
为装点基西里娅 到处开放的花冠
却藏在这儿，可基西里娅从没有见；
那边牧牛的旁边有棵黄黄的水仙，
蜻蜓离得好远也能把它掳入眼帘，
诚然一个夏天的夜晚天降的甘露，
可以两次把它的小酒杯盛圆斟满，
星辰才唤醒懒惰的牧人照看羊栏；
请别太慷慨，叶子上用金子装点，
似乎朱庇特那美丽的情人达那厄 ，
由于朱庇特的金臂膀而激动万分，
情不自禁地俯身把那花瓣儿亲吻，
或是墨丘利 飞到狄斯 的黑暗渡津，
用他翅膀的羽尖轻拂颤抖的水仙！
承受着阳光的负担的柔嫩的枝叶，
并不比蜘蛛编织的网纱厚了多少，
或者可怜的阿拉克尼 银色的绣毯——
人们说他绽放在玉石的圣盒上面，
那圣体有时候还会受到我的礼拜，
但给我携来的是记忆；赫利孔山
牧神喜欢的草地，仙女喜爱的海；
藤比河 的两岸没有人涉足的溪谷，
清流的旁边躺着那少年纳喀索斯 ，
他那美发曲卷着像浓密的小树丛，
树林的静谧蕴藏在他的双眼里，
向飘忽的影子把他心中的爱倾诉，
刚俯身亲吻就破灭；萨耳玛昔斯 ，
少年和少女，既都是而又都不是，
他们是不停燃烧的熊熊烈火两炉，
欲望的过度从未曾知道什么叫满足，
为了爱的缘故，任一方激情都不愿
离开对方的激情，亲密扼杀了爱情；
还有对俄瑞阿得的记忆，她透过了
月光照耀下寂静的树叶偷偷地看，
看见纳克索斯孤独的阿里阿德涅 ，
当她看到大海上背信弃义的船员，
她挥舞着红丝巾并呼唤着忒修斯，
招他回还，哪知道酒神狄俄尼索斯
骑着他琥珀色的豹子就在她身边；
还有弥奥尼亚的盲诗人 ，他看见
特洛伊的城墙，海伦躺在象牙闺房，
在她的身旁一位多情的红唇少年 ，
白皙的手整理着他的头盔的红缨，
而远处是呻吟呐喊，到处一片混乱，
埃阿斯 掷出石头，赫克托耳挡住枪；
还有迅捷的珀尔修斯 手里握着剑，
斩断了那女巫的蛇形怪发一缕缕；
所有这些故事藏在希腊的古瓮里，
永远，永远不消失，储存的珍宝
比西班牙华丽的帆船从印度群岛
载回的还丰富！它们至少携回来
古希腊的诗歌里那古希腊的众神，
因为我知道，他们绝不会轻易灭殒，
他们睡熟了，当他们听到你的呼唤，
他们会醒来认为他们是在塞萨利 ，
这清凉的林地，这泰晤士激荡的水，
少年伊底斯曾玩耍的斑斓的草地。
倘若是你，茉莉为摇篮的亲爱的鸟，
从你那枝叶编织的宝座的静谧中，
你唱给那好奇的少年 听，一直到
她听见阿塔兰忒娓娓吹奏的号角，
号角先穿过了山脉又徘徊在林间，
傍晚的时候来到雅典诗人的泉边。——
啊，小巧玲珑的装束严肃的歌唱者，
祈祷着白日快离开月亮迅速出现！
倘若在这美妙的追寻，你的确曾经
使那牧羊人 追寻他的伙伴，当冥后
普罗塞耳皮娜忘记这里不是西西里，
并侧身靠在长苔的门梃，心中不明——
树林中羽翼轻盈眼睛明亮的奇迹！
倘若你曾用你悠扬的乐曲来慰藉
那小小的团体 ，那里的人们喜爱
托斯卡纳 明亮的晨星，胜于拉斐尔
完美的太阳，你那吟唱不朽的歌喉，
为我歌唱吧！因为我是这么的爱你，
不停地唱吧！让无聊的世界变年轻，
让这里纯朴的事物再一次落地生根，
让美的古老的形式在朴素的庭院、
在没有遮拦的牧场信马由缰，就像
勒托的儿子 手中挥舞着杨柳的枝条，
温顺的绵羊和山羊跟着这位童神跑。
不停地唱吧！酒神巴库斯已驾临，
他的座下正是那华丽的印度王席，
驾驭着呜咽流泪的虎豹挥动着矛，
黄澄澄的藤蔓上长着黏糊糊的花，
而在他的身旁是放荡的巴萨里达 ，
他将把狮子摔倒抓住那山区少年。
不停地唱吧！我也要穿斑点豹皮 ，
偷去阿斯塔蒂 那射出月光的羽翼，
乘着她冰清玉洁的战车，我们斯须
就会赢得奇泰隆 ，这也不过是美酒
溢出了酒桶，或者牧神停下了脚步；
啊，黎明闪烁的灯光驱赶着猫头鹰
咻咻地回到巢穴，并且警告着蝙蝠
收起它那薄纱般的翼翅，迈那得斯 ，
那疯狂的姑娘胸前装点着青藤枝，
将趁潘神的熟睡偷取山毛榉果实，
她手脚轻盈怕巢里的雏歌鸫惊醒，
然后会尖声地大笑，并且蹦蹦跳跳
跑下苍翠的山谷，那里晶莹的露珠
在榆树下静静地数落着她的珍藏，
直到那些棕皮肤的萨梯 熙熙攘攘
在河岸上愉快地把黄连花踩踏倒，
还有他们的长角的主人 正襟端坐，
把丰满的李子和草莓放进柳条筐！
不停地唱吧！一会儿从凉爽的树林
阿波罗的少年 将至，面容因情而损，
那推罗的王子 将追赶长刺的野猪，
一直追到开着花儿的栗子树树丛，
还有那姹女 骑着天鹅绒般的牡鹿，
她象牙的肢体，黑灰的眼睛，好高傲！
不停地唱吧！我会看见将死的少年，
用他紫色的鲜血染红蜡一般的银铃 ，
比红宝石还红，塞浦路斯神 真可怜，
她将向我把她的哀伤娓娓地倾诉，
我将亲吻她的红唇和清泉的眼睛，
引她到阿多尼斯躺着的香桃树丛 ！
为了伊底斯大声地哭吧！那记忆，
哀伤和痛苦的结义兄弟，把毒汁
滴进我的耳中 ——为了得到自由，
把你的旧船烧掉 ！再一次投入到
海浪的白色战斗，大战普罗透斯 ，
为了争夺那开满了珊瑚花的洞穴。
哦，为了美狄娅 ，罂粟浸过的魔咒！
哦，为了科尔喀斯岛的圣坛的秘密！
哦，为了雪白的水仙花 的一片枝叶，
它捆在普罗塞耳皮娜疲倦的额头，
傍晚向她喷洒着如此奇妙的甘露，
她梦见了西西里海边厄那 的田野，
那里她常常追逐金色翅膀的蜜蜂，
在草地上从一枝百合追到另一枝，
直到狡黠的冥王，她命定的夫君，
引诱她吃下那致命的石榴的果实，
黑黝黝的骏马拉着她一直往下去，
到达无花的昏暗土地，悲惨的一日！
哦，为了一个子夜，小小的米洛斯岛 ，
作为情人的维纳斯那爱情的女神！
那古代的雕像常常在顷俄的瞬间
煽起团团欲火、阵阵激情，我能够
把“佛罗伦萨的黎明” 从麻木中唤醒，
连同力大的四肢，那胸膛我的卧床。
不停地唱吧！我将会为生活而陶醉，
也为我年轻时糟蹋的美酒而陶醉，
我将会忘却那疲惫的徒劳的努力，
撕破的纱帘 ，戈耳戈 眼睛里的真理，
无祈祷的守夜 以及为祈祷而痛哭，
无聊的礼品，举起的手臂，凝滞的空气！
不停地唱吧！装饰着羽毛的尼俄柏 ，
你可以把悲痛融化为优美，从欢乐
偷窃了美妙的音乐，不像我们一样
只会在死寂的无声中努力去隐藏
自己未曾抚平的创伤，只会去隐忍
囚于内心的痛苦，谋杀枕边的睡眠。
大声地唱吧！为什么我仍然看得见
那被抛弃的基督苍白无血的面容？
他的滴血的双手曾经紧握我的手，
他的肿胀的双唇曾经亲吻我的唇，
现在却独坐在他失去光彩的教堂，
在无声的大理石般的悲哀中幽咽。
哦，记忆，脱掉你那花环的外壳吧！
哦，悲惨的墨尔波墨涅 ，停下笛声！
哦，悲凄，留在你那隐蔽的洞穴里，
不要用眼泪污了清澈的卡斯塔利！
停下吧，菲洛梅拉，你真情的歌声
惊扰了森林，打乱了绿色的宁静!
停下吧！若保持麻木是痛苦难忍，
那就从快乐的歌鸫鸟儿汲取气息，
它的无忧无虑的快乐比你的悲泣
更加适合这块英格兰的森林土地；
啊，停下吧，我这北风携着你的歌
回到色雷斯的山脉，汹涌的爱琴海。
过了一会儿，受惊的枝叶开始颤动，
那位少年恩底弥翁会通过这片草地，
披着爱的月色；这宁静的泰晤士河，
已经听到潘神摇着橹桨寻找芦笛，
以便吸引那伊阿得 游出蓝色的洞，
她聆听着笛声又是高兴又是畏惧。
过了一会儿，醒来的鸽子开始叫，
银白色的大海那银白色的女儿 ，
携着丁零当啷的双手多情的镣铐，
向她爱恋的少年倾诉情意多缠绵，
得丽俄普 已经把橡树的枝叶撩开，
要看御着战车的多情的金发少年。
又过了一会儿，那树枝也俯下身去
亲吻刚刚从昏厥中醒来的达佛涅 ，
那颤动的月桂；孤独的萨耳玛昔斯，
已经把她美丽的胴体展示给旦娥，
安提努斯 凄凉而淫荡地微微笑着，
涉过了溪谷，尼罗河里红红的莲花
偎依在他黑黝黝的丛丛秀发边旁，
遮掩那双朦胧的眼帘把幸福深藏，
或者在远处绿草茸茸的山坡儿上，
穿着束身衣的童女子阿耳忒弥斯，
已经叫她的猎狗吠起来，将那牡鹿
从绿丛惊跑，嘿呵的呼唤闪闪的矛。
安静下来吧，哦，充满激情的心灵！
哦，忧郁，收起你的乌鸦般的羽翼！
哦，抽泣的树精，从你空空的山峰，
不要携来这样的沮丧无望的回声！
迅捷的玛耳斯亚斯 你也不要抱怨，
这样痛苦的歌，阿波罗从不喜欢听！
那是一场梦境，林间空地没住客，
爱奥尼亚人的笑声也没有传空中，
泰晤士河仍然倦怠地流淌着灰色，
从这边凄凉的没有枝叶的矮树丛，
逃走了年轻的巴库斯与欢快随从，
可是那边的树林传来凄厉的乐声，
如此的哀婉人们会觉着每一个音
都会撕裂人的内心，这正是音乐
应该有的品质，作为艺术的形式，
最能催人泪下，令人永远铭记。
你害怕什么，悲哀的菲洛梅拉？
你的姐姐不在这儿逗留，也没有
潘底翁 ，更没有手握利刃的君主，
没有血淋淋的家族徽章编织的网，
只有长苔的林间空地让伙伴徜徉，
还有温暖的山谷让疲倦的学子躺，
手里是半开的书，蜿蜒的小路上
农家的爱恋者黄昏携手走得幸福。
无害的兔子也携着小仔欢蹦乱跳
在行人踏踩的崎岖小路也不害臊，
一群嬉戏的少年也在小路上玩闹，
欢呼的声响朝着河里摇桨的队员 ，
用银线交织在一起的薄纱悬挂在
玲珑的织机上，从孤零零的农场
红屋檐的草房传来了闪烁的灯光，
劳累的牧羊人在驱赶着咩咩羊群
回到篱笆编织的羊栏，轻轻的呼喊
从森德津 水闸划来的牛津队船上，
惊动了在小溪的莎草中觅食的鸟，
一道幽暗的长影像飞燕掠向山冈。
白鹭飞过这片水泽急急往家里赶，
幽蓝的暮霭悄悄爬上颤动的树冠，
宁静的星辰也出来为世界添光彩，
一轮皎月就像微风吹拂的鲜花儿，
蹁跹飘游在微光闪烁的天空，默默
把你哀婉的歌你欢乐的唱来评判。
她没有注意到你，倘若她留意着你，
她就会知晓恩底弥翁也会在这里，
那是我，那是我，我的魂灵像芦笛，
它的故事不劳要风儿传递，
吹奏的是他人的挽歌，那就是我，
在悲苦的海洋随着每一缕风漂移。
啊，那棕色的鸟儿停下了她的挽歌，
苍凉的树林的每一个清脆的颤音
似乎都在乐曲中染上死亡的色泽，
天空这样的幽寂，人们可听到蝙蝠
在松树的上方扇动的翼翅，可分清
从幽蓝的花蕊滑落的每一滴清露？
在苍莽莽的荒野那边远远的地方，
The Burden Of Itys
by Oscar Wilde
This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves, - God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!
Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake
A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,
His eyes half shut, - he is some mitred old
Bishop in PARTIBUS! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.
The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
Does well for Palaestrina, one would say
The mighty master's hands were on the keys
Of the Maria organ, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne
From his dark House out to the Balcony
Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and West
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.
Is not yon lingering orange after-glow
That stays to vex the moon more fair than all
Rome's lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago
I knelt before some crimson Cardinal
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,
And now - those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.
The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous
With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring
Through this cool evening than the odorous
Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,
And makes God's body from the common fruit of corn and vine.
Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass
Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass
I see that throbbing throat which once I heard
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.
Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves
At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves
Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.
And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,
And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees
That round and round the linden blossoms play;
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,
And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring
While the last violet loiters by the well,
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing
The song of Linus through a sunny dell
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.
And sweet with young Lycoris to recline
In some Illyrian valley far away,
Where canopied on herbs amaracine
We too might waste the summer-tranced day
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,
While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.
But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot
Of some long-hidden God should ever tread
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute
Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head
By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.
Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,
Though what thou sing'st be thine own requiem!
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler
Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield
Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose
Which all day long in vales AEolian
A lad might seek in vain for over-grows
Our hedges like a wanton courtesan
Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too
Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue
Dot the green wheat which, though they are the
signs
For swallows going south, would never spread
Their azure tents between the Attic vines;
Even that little weed of ragged red,
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames
Which to awake were sweeter ravishment
Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems
Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant
For Cytheraea's brows are hidden here
Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steer
There is a tiny yellow daffodil,
The butterfly can see it from afar,
Although one summer evening's dew could fill
Its little cup twice over ere the star
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold
And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold
As if Jove's gorgeous leman Danae
Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss
The trembling petals, or young Mercury
Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis
Had with one feather of his pinions
Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its
suns
Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,
Or poor Arachne's silver tapestry, -
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre
Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me
It seems to bring diviner memories
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,
Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where
On the clear river's marge Narcissus lies,
The tangle of the forest in his hair,
The silence of the woodland in his eyes,
Wooing that drifting imagery which is
No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis
Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,
Fed by two fires and unsatisfied
Through their excess, each passion being loth
For love's own sake to leave the other's side
Yet killing love by staying; memories
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,
Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf
At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew
Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf
And called false Theseus back again nor knew
That Dionysos on an amber pard
Was close behind her; memories of what Maeonia's bard
With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,
Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy
Trimming with dainty hand his helmet's plume,
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;
Of winged Perseus with his flawless sword
Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,
And all those tales imperishably stored
In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain
Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,
For well I know they are not dead at all,
The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call
Will wake and think 't is very Thessaly,
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.
If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird
Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard
The horn of Atalanta faintly blown
Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering
Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets' spring, -
Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate
That pleadest for the moon against the day!
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate
On that sweet questing, when Proserpina
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment, -
Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!
If ever thou didst soothe with melody
One of that little clan, that brotherhood
Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany
More than the perfect sun of Raphael
And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.
Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,
Let elemental things take form again,
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among
The simple garths and open crofts, as when
The son of Leto bare the willow rod,
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.
Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here
Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear
With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,
While at his side the wanton Bassarid
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!
Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,
And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth,
Upon whose icy chariot we could win
Cithaeron in an hour ere the froth
Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun
Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn
Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,
And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,
Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her breast
Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans
So softly that the little nested thrush
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush
Down the green valley where the fallen dew
Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew
Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,
And where their horned master sits in state
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!
Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face
Through the cool leaves Apollo's lad will come,
The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase
Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,
After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride.
Sing on! and I the dying boy will see
Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me
The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!
Cry out aloud on Itys! memory
That foster-brother of remorse and pain
Drops poison in mine ear, - O to be free,
To burn one's old ships! and to launch again
Into the white-plumed battle of the waves
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!
O for Medea with her poppied spell!
O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel
Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,
Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased
From lily to lily on the level mead,
Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste
The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,
Ere the black steeds had harried her away
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.
O for one midnight and as paramour
The Venus of the little Melian farm!
O that some antique statue for one hour
Might wake to passion, and that I could charm
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair!
Sing on! sing on! I would be drunk with life,
Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,
I would forget the wearying wasted strife,
The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,
The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!
Sing on! sing on! O feathered Niobe,
Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal
From joy its sweetest music, not as we
Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep.
Sing louder yet, why must I still behold
The wan white face of that deserted Christ,
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,
Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,
And now in mute and marble misery
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me?
O Memory cast down thy wreathed shell!
Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!
O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell
Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!
Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!
Cease, cease, or if 't is anguish to be dumb
Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become
This English woodland than thy keen despair,
Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.
A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,
Endymion would have passed across the mead
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard
Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.
A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,
The silver daughter of the silver sea
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed
Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope
Had thrust aside the branches of her oak
To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.
A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss
Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis
Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile
Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,
To shade those slumberous eyelids' caverned bliss,
Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare
High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.
Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!
O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill
Come not with such despondent answering!
No more thou winged Marsyas complain,
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!
It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,
No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,
And from the copse left desolate and bare
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody
So sad, that one might think a human heart
Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
Which is most nigh to tears and memory;
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,
Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,
No woven web of bloody heraldries,
But mossy dells for roving comrades made,
Warm valleys where the tired student lies
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.
The harmless rabbit gambols with its young
Across the trampled towing-path, where late
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng
Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds
Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out
Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout
Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.
The heron passes homeward to the mere,
The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,
Gold world by world the silent stars appear,
And like a blossom blown before the breeze
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.
She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,
She knows Endymion is not far away;
'Tis I, 'tis I, whose soul is as the reed
Which has no message of its own to play,
So pipes another's bidding, it is I,
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.
Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill
About the sombre woodland seems to cling
Dying in music, else the air is still,
So still that one might hear the bat's small wing
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell
Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell's brimming cell.
And far away across the lengthening wold,
Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,
Magdalen's tall tower tipped with tremulous gold
Marks the long High Street of the little town,
And warns me to return; I must not wait,
Hark ! 't is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church
gate.
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