The Laurel

[str. α.]

O Lady loved of our sweet sunrise singer
Whose name Song speaks with lingering of the lips,
Our laureate of the marshes, our light-bringer
Out of the darkness of fair Love's eclipse!
Out of the jar of ways that Trade has turned
Into a mart where Love may have no place
Save it be bought and sold,
A rare fair soul like a clear lamp burned
And shot through the mirk its sudden rays
And over the smoke-pit a glimmer of gold
Flashed and a voice, like the brook-note of a flute
That in its passioning still is pure and cool,
Or the clear sharp dropping of water into a pool
When all the woods are mute,
Spake and the sound thereof
Brake through the barrier,
Keen as the silver sword of the moon;
"Woe to the warrior
Liegeman of Love
Found, when the fighting
Grows fierce for the victor's boon,
Far from the foeman!
See where the dark hosts stay for our smiting!"
O gracious, queenly, softly-smiling woman!
Thee with his light and sweetness this man dowered,
To whom the laurel leaf of right belongs.
Ah me! and how should I
Take from thy hands the branch that greened and flowered
More beautifully, tangled in his hair,
Amid the city's flowerless throngs,
Than when beside the braes of Delaware
It swayed beneath the languid sky,
Ere it was honored, honoring his songs.

[ant. α.]

Not unto me, not unto me, fair Lady —
I dare not let the sacred leaves be bound
About my brow. My song is all unready
So soon to seek so greatly to be crowned.
I would go find some sager singer — sure,
There are wise poets somewhere in the world —
And yield the wreath to him.
My song-flight yet is but insecure,
The blooms of my rose-tree scarce uncurled,
The blush of the blossoming faint and dim.
Ah, but I may not resign so the high crown
Nor to another deliver its dear weight.
Thou hast bound my brow with it, mine — crowned me in state —
Set me above Time's frown.
Not I may undo the deed
Wrought by thee royally,
Queen in thy right and the love of thy lord!
Let me then loyally
Kneel in my need
And pray that Apollo
Breathe wisdom into the word
That my lips shall deliver.
So shall my song fly swift as the swallow
To greet thee with its perfected endeavor,
Saying; "My lord that wrought me, sends me theeward,
The late fulfilment of the labor thou
Didst bind upon his youth."
As sea-gulls turn their singing flight to seaward,
I turn me to the mighty sea of song,
Guiding the glad swerve of the prow
Of my light boat of melody down long
Sea-ways of beauty, freedom, truth,
Eastward where Day shall bare his rosy brow.

[ep. α.]

I take the lyre with steady hand
But reverent, knowing well how long
And bitter are the ways of song,
How few that reach its Promised Land.
I know my weakness and my strength;
I know that the toil will task me sore;
And, though glad and proud, I am made at length
More humble of heart than I was before.
For I felt, when my song was so o'er-requited,
As a maid when she first finds love and is still,
And my soul knelt down as a thrall new-knighted,
Abashed and wondering, weak to fulfil.
For he should be strong who shall wear this crown,
Wise and great-hearted, just to king and clown,
Sweet and serene and full of grace
And pure as Daphne ere the fatal race —
Daphne, the daughter of the river god,
Whose beauty was a pearl whose worth surpassed
The cruel wealth the Cretan's touch amassed.
But she loved more the woodland paths she trod
Untrammeled, than the rule of Hymen's rod,
And pleading many times for leave to cast
Her lot with virgin Artemis, at last
Won from her father the consenting nod.
And she and her maidens withdrew from the fret and the pother
Back to the home in the heart of the sweet rough mother,
Mother of all things, the earth, and drank of the crystalline chalice
She fills for her children that love her, a cup of refreshing and peace,
Chased the roe on the rocks and hunted the hart through the valleys,
Raced in sport through the groves with gowns kilted up to the knees,
Saw through the mists of the morning the gleam of the cold dawn shining,
Ranged through many a woodland and bathed in many a stream,
Wonderful, virginal, holy, aloof from desire and repining;
And Artemis smiled on the maidens and the days went fleet as a dream.

[str. β.]

But Love, who saves and slays in a strange fashion,
Smote twain for this maid-queen of glens and glades.
Love pierced the great Apollo with keen passion,
And sent Leucippus masking with the maids.
It is an ill thing to contend with gods.
Leucippus did not long behold the light
In the leaves like sifted gold.
Lo, they have stripped him and beaten with rods,
Mocked him and cursed him and slain him quite.
But Daphne far from the strife sat cold,
Lone and unmoved, and the god came to her there,
Abashed, and lay at her feet and begged his bliss
With the lips Song sprang from, and sighed his soul for a kiss —
He, to whom kings made prayer.
So great Apollo sued;
But she, with her maiden heart
Fluttered and frayed as a bird in a snare,
Fled with fear-laden heart
Into the wood.
And Apollo up-leaping
And rent with desire and despair,
Sped after her, crying:
"Ah, leave me not, love, to lie widowed and weeping!
Oh, Daphne! Daphne!" and the sound went sighing,
"Oh, Daphne!" softlier through the echoing arches,
But the maid flees the swiftlier that the air
Shakes with that longing sound.
Swift, swift the sweet shape speeds between the larches!
Swift, swift the god pursues, and now is near
With arms outstretched to clasp! Despair
Spurs her — but love has faster feet than fear.
She hears his sandals smite the ground
And feels his breathing on her neck and hair.

[ant. β.]

And now the glad god feels the grapes of joyance
Bursting upon the palate of his soul.
A storm-like exultation, a mad buoyance
Sweeps all the cords of life from his control.
But ere his lips touch hers, she gives one shrill
Cry, and is heard; and the captor whose swift arms close
About her like the dark,
Feels the throbs subside and the limbs grow still
And the smooth breasts stiffen that fell and rose,
And the ripe mouth roughen to bitter bark
Under the pressure of lips fierce for a kiss.
"Ai, ai, me wretched!" the god mourns in his woe,
"Ah, the sweet eyes closed and the fleet limbs fettered! And oh,
The fair life gone amiss!
Ah, the beauty! the grace!
Ah, the delight of it!
The fleet light flash of her flying feet!
Never shall sight of it
Now flush my face
In near land or far land.
Yet not wholly I lose thee, my sweet!
On my brow, a dear burden,
Thy leaves shall be laid, my grief and my garland.
For loss of love I am given a barren guerdon —
An austere crown for raptures hymeneal.
And ever henceforth he whom my lovers laud,
Shall wear this sacred leaf —
The Daphne of his unattained Ideal
Imperishably laurelled in his hair.
And now I go. My feet have trod
A weary way. I see Fate does not spare
Even to the Immortals failure and grief.
I also have my duties, though a god."

[ep. β.]

Spirit of beauty, not without
A hidden sorrow at thy heart
We fable thee, — though what thou art
In truth, we cannot choose but doubt, —
For all the beauty that we know
Is pierced with a secret sense of pain,
And not till the time-floods cease to flow
Can the sad and sweet be cleft in twain.
O grand Greek god! — for I hold it true,
That strange myth blown from the Doric sea —
O bay-bound brow that so well I knew,
When faith was an easy thing to me!
Bright god of song! Strong lord of light!
Earth and the sea take beauty at thy sight;
The Python shrivels, pierced with thy lance;
And the dead rise at thy life-giving glance.
Spirit of beauty, born of the divine breath
With its first issuance into Time and Space!
Shaping the whole creation into grace
Through intimate interflux of life and death!
Lifting the transient, as it anguisheth,
To the serene wherein change hath no place!
High Son of God, that lookest on God's face!
Supremest angel that God uttereth!
Make me a flute for thy lips, a lute for thy fingers!
Take me, O lord of the lyre, — the least of thy singers,
Least of the voices that follow thee, lured from thy feet by none other,
Least of thy servants, Apollo, whose wages are sunlight and tears —
Take me to rest in thy deeps, as a child at the breast of its mother,
Give me the peace of thy kiss and strength for the strife of the years!
Bitter and sweet are thy gifts. Thou hast borne me aloft as a feather
That the wind blows hither and thither till it falls in the foam of the sea;
Thou hast given me haven and home; thou hast given me wind and rough weather;
And I lift thee my heart for a lyre, for the gifts thou hast given to me.

[str. γ.]

Behold, of him unto whom much is given,
Much is required. It is a fearful thing
To be a poet. How shall he be shriven,
If greed or fear restrain his uttering?
Oh, ill for him, whoever he may be,
Who looks upon the glory of the night
And is not glad of heart!
Behold, he hath eyes and he doth not see!
How shall his soul see the very light?
Shall he ever emerge from the mirk of the mart?
Ay, but if he whom the high gods have ordained
Their priest, speak not the truth that his eye shall see,
There shall be no spirit in hell so scourged as he —
No soul so self-disdained.
Woe to the chosen one,
Lured from his lonely way,
Bullied or bribed to abandon the shrine!
There is one only way —
None other — none.
Lady, whose bay-flowers
I wear for a fear and a sign,
If the world should beguile me
With music and masking and glitter of gay flowers,
Then I could not reply, should'st thou revile me,
Wordless and more in high contempt than ire.
Ay, even if, feeling at sight of the sweet goal
Mine own unworthiness,
I should delay to seize the seven-tongued lyre,
Lest I should do its sacred strings some wrong,
Thou might'st well leave me with small dole
And he who is the Virgil to my song,
Scorning my timorous distress,
Might well reproach the vileness of my soul.

[ant. γ.]

There is so much that I would fain be singing,
I know not if my voice may fail, my friend,
Nor if the years may ever see me bringing
My lyric labors to a tranquil end.
The new world, rising from its fiery death,
Spreads its strong, phoenix-wings for sunward flight,
Impatient of the past.
The Trade-snake belches his foul black breath
From a thousand throats and the throng takes fright.
And cowers and the sky is overcast.
Hark, but the hurry of hoof-beats in the air!
The new Bellerophon of the unborn years!
And his cry rings out like a victor's shout in our ears,
Piercing the monster's lair.
Song is the steed he rides,
Wisdom the bridle-rein.
Who shall withstand him? Who shall delay?
Not with an idle rein
Grimly he guides.
Death for the dragon!
For men, where a fen was, a way
For the footing of freemen!
Then shall the poets pour us a flagon,
Sweet as rain to the throats of ship-wrecked seamen,
And the spent world shall draw a freer breath, —
Though still may men see Faith as one astray,
And Hope with weary eyes,
And wan Love beating at the gates of Death.
Wise eyes shall pierce the darkness with sweet scorn
And wise lips clarion our way
Through ever loftier portals of the morn,
With lark-songs greatening as they rise
In the large glories of the coming day.

[ep. γ.]

For surely from the childing night
That labors in a God's birth-throes,
Shall come at last dawn's baby-rose,
The potency of perfect light.
I see the seraph of the years,
Asleep in the womb of the Lord's intent,
And the ripple of laughter in his ears
Is seen on his face as a great content.
And the wise lips smile and the grand brow flushes
For joy at the joy that his own arm brings,
Like a smile of May when the wild rose blushes.
And deep in the thicket the wood-thrush sings.
I see him at rest on the rim of Time,
Stretched on the cloud-rack, couchant and sublime,
And the swift white sword at his side, half-drawn,
Flashes a distant glimmer of the dawn.
I see, though darkly, what my spirit sought;
I see what is, beneath what comes and goes;
I see the sweet unfolding of the rose,
By changeless influence to full beauty brought;
I hear the symphony intricately wrought;
Dim meanings swell through deep adagios
And underneath the myriad chords disclose
The perfect act of God that changeth not.
Behold, He is other than earth and transcendeth its seeming;
Behold, He is one with the earth and the earth is His dreaming.
Soul of the world, say the sages; yea, sooth, but not bound in a prison,
For the soul dwelleth not in the body, but the body doth dwell in the soul.
O Holy of Holies! Inscrutable! Ageless! through Thee have we risen;
Thou art, but our being is yearning, — we are not save as parts of Thy whole.
Only by cleaving to Thee have Thy creatures the life that rejoices,
Knowing itself to be, verily; the rest is but seeming to be;
And the whole world, groaning in travail, cries out with its manifold voices,
"O Lord, in Thee have we trusted; there is no life but in Thee!"