Astrophel and Other Poems Taken from The Collected Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne, Vol. VI

THE PALACE OF PAN The dawn of night more fair than morning rose, Stars hurrying forth on stars, as snows on snows Haste when the wind and winter bid them speed. Vague miles of moorland road behind us lay Scarce traversed ere the day Sank, and the sun forsook us at our need, Belated. Where we thought to have rested, rest Was none; for soft Maree's dim quivering breast, Bound round with gracious inland girth of green And fearless of the wild wave-wandering West, Shone shelterless for strangers; and unseen The goal before us lay Of all our blithe and strange and strenuous day. For when the northering road faced westward—when The dark sharp sudden gorge dropped seaward—then, Beneath the stars, between the steeps, the track We followed, lighted not of moon or sun, And plunging whither none Might guess, while heaven and earth were hoar and black, Seemed even the dim still pass whence none turns back: And through the twilight leftward of the way, And down the dark, with many a laugh and leap, The light blithe hill-streams shone from scaur to steep In glittering pride of play; And ever while the night grew great and deep We felt but saw not what the hills would keep Sacred awhile from sense of moon or star; And full and far Beneath us, sweet and strange as heaven may be, The sea. The very sea: no mountain-moulded lake Whose fluctuant shapeliness is fain to take Shape from the steadfast shore that rules it round, And only from the storms a casual sound: The sea, that harbours in her heart sublime The supreme heart of music deep as time, And in her spirit strong The spirit of all imaginable song. Not a whisper or lisp from the waters: the skies were not silenter. Peace Was between them; a passionless rapture of respite as soft as release. Not a sound, but a sense that possessed and pervaded with patient delight The soul and the body, clothed round with the comfort of limitless night. Night infinite, living, adorable, loved of the land and the sea: Night, mother of mercies, who saith to the spirits in prison, Be free. And softer than dewfall, and kindlier than starlight, and keener than wine, Came round us the fragrance of waters, the life of the breath of the brine. We saw not, we heard not, the face or the voice of the waters: we knew By the darkling delight of the wind as the sense of the sea in it grew, By the pulse of the darkness about us enkindled and quickened, that here, Unseen and unheard of us, surely the goal we had faith in was near. A silence diviner than music, a darkness diviner than light, Fulfilled as from heaven with a measureless comfort the measure of night. But never a roof for shelter And never a sign for guide Rose doubtful or visible: only And hardly and gladly we heard The soft waves whisper and welter, Subdued, and allured to subside, By the mild night's magic: the lonely Sweet silence was soothed, not stirred, By the noiseless noise of the gleaming Glad ripples, that played and sighed, Kissed, laughed, recoiled, and relented, Whispered, flickered, and fled. No season was this for dreaming How oft, with a stormier tide, Had the wrath of the winds been vented On sons of the tribes long dead: The tribes whom time, and the changes Of things, and the stress of doom, Have erased and effaced; forgotten As wrecks or weeds of the shore In sight of the stern hill-ranges That hardly may change their gloom When the fruits of the years wax rotten And the seed of them springs no more. For the dim strait footway dividing The waters that breathed below Led safe to the kindliest of shelters That ever awoke into light: And still in remembrance abiding Broods over the stars that glow And the water that eddies and welters The passionate peace of the night. All night long, in the world of sleep, Skies and waters were soft and deep: Shadow clothed them, and silence made Soundless music of dream and shade: All above us, the livelong night, Shadow, kindled with sense of light; All around us, the brief night long, Silence, laden with sense of song. Stars and mountains without, we knew, Watched and waited, the soft night through: All unseen, but divined and dear, Thrilled the touch of the sea's breath near: All unheard, but alive like sound, Throbbed the sense of the sea's life round: Round us, near us, in depth and height, Soft as darkness and keen as light. And the dawn leapt in at my casement: and there, as I rose, at my feet No waves of the landlocked waters, no lake submissive and sweet, Soft slave of the lordly seasons, whose breath may loose it or freeze; But to left and to right and ahead was the ripple whose pulse is the sea's. From the gorge we had travelled by starlight the sunrise, winged and aflame, Shone large on the live wide wavelets that shuddered with joy as it came; As it came and caressed and possessed them, till panting and laughing with light From mountain to mountain the water was kindled and stung to delight. And the grey gaunt heights that embraced and constrained and compelled it were glad, And the rampart of rock, stark naked, that thwarted and barred it, was clad With a stern grey splendour of sunrise: and scarce had I sprung to the sea When the dawn and the water were wedded, the hills and the sky set free. The chain of the night was broken: the waves that embraced me and smiled And flickered and fawned in the sunlight, alive, unafraid, undefiled, Were sweeter to swim in than air, though fulfilled with the mounting morn, Could be for the birds whose triumph rejoiced that a day was born. And a day was arisen indeed for us. Years and the changes of years Clothed round with their joys and their sorrows, and dead as their hopes and their fears, Lie noteless and nameless, unlit by remembrance or record of days Worth wonder or memory, or cursing or blessing, or passion or praise, Between us who live and forget not, but yearn with delight in it yet, And the day we forget not, and never may live and may think to forget. And the years that were kindlier and fairer, and kindled with pleasures as keen, Have eclipsed not with lights or with shadows the light on the face of it seen. For softly and surely, as nearer the boat that we gazed from drew, The face of the precipice opened and bade us as birds pass through, And the bark shot sheer to the sea through the strait of the sharp steep cleft, The portal that opens with imminent rampires to right and to left, Sublime as the sky they darken and strange as a spell-struck dream, On the world unconfined of the mountains, the reign of the sea supreme, The kingdom of westward waters, wherein when we swam we knew The waves that we clove were boundless, the wind on our brows that blew Had swept no land and no lake, and had warred not on tower or on tree, But came on us hard out of heaven, and alive with the soul of the sea. THE PALACE OF PAN Inscribed to my Mother September, all glorious with gold, as a king In the radiance of triumph attired, Outlightening the summer, outsweetening the spring, Broods wide on the woodlands with limitless wing, A presence of all men desired. Far eastward and westward the sun-coloured lands Smile warm as the light on them smiles; And statelier than temples upbuilded with hands, Tall column by column, the sanctuary stands Of the pine-forest's infinite aisles. Mute worship, too fervent for praise or for prayer, Possesses the spirit with peace, Fulfilled with the breath of the luminous air, The fragrance, the silence, the shadows as fair As the rays that recede or increase. Ridged pillars that redden aloft and aloof, With never a branch for a nest, Sustain the sublime indivisible roof, To the storm and the sun in his majesty proof, And awful as waters at rest. Man's hand hath not measured the height of them; thought May measure not, awe may not know; In its shadow the woofs of the woodland are wrought; As a bird is the sun in the toils of them caught, And the flakes of it scattered as snow. As the shreds of a plumage of gold on the ground The sun-flakes by multitudes lie, Shed loose as the petals of roses discrowned On the floors of the forest engilt and embrowned And reddened afar and anigh. Dim centuries with darkling inscrutable hands Have reared and secluded the shrine For gods that we know not, and kindled as brands On the altar the years that are dust, and their sands Time's glass has forgotten for sign. A temple whose transepts are measured by miles, Whose chancel has morning for priest, Whose floor-work the foot of no spoiler defiles, Whose musical silence no music beguiles, No festivals limit its feast. The noon's ministration, the night's and the dawn's, Conceals not, reveals not for man, On the slopes of the herbless and blossomless lawns, Some track of a nymph's or some trail of a faun's To the place of the slumber of Pan. Thought, kindled and quickened by worship and wonder To rapture too sacred for fear On the ways that unite or divide them in sunder, Alone may discern if about them or under Be token or trace of him here. With passionate awe that is deeper than panic The spirit subdued and unshaken Takes heed of the godhead terrene and Titanic Whose footfall is felt on the breach of volcanic Sharp steeps that their fire has forsaken. By a spell more serene than the dim necromantic Dead charms of the past and the night, Or the terror that lurked in the noon to make frantic Where Etna takes shape from the limbs of gigantic Dead gods disanointed of might, The spirit made one with the spirit whose breath Makes noon in the woodland sublime Abides as entranced in a presence that saith Things loftier than life and serener than death, Triumphant and silent as time. Pine Ridge: September 1893 A YEAR'S CAROLS JANUARY Hail, January, that bearest here On snowbright breasts the babe-faced year That weeps and trembles to be born. Hail, maid and mother, strong and bright, Hooded and cloaked and shod with white, Whose eyes are stars that match the morn. Thy forehead braves the storm's bent bow, Thy feet enkindle stars of snow. FEBRUARY Wan February with weeping cheer, Whose cold hand guides the youngling year Down misty roads of mire and rime, Before thy pale and fitful face The shrill wind shifts the clouds apace Through skies the morning scarce may climb. Thine eyes are thick with heavy tears, But lit with hopes that light the year's. MARCH Hail, happy March, whose foot on earth Rings as the blast of martial mirth When trumpets fire men's hearts for fray. No race of wild things winged or finned May match the might that wings thy wind Through air and sea, through scud and spray. Strong joy and thou were powers twin-born Of tempest and the towering morn. APRIL Crowned April, king whose kiss bade earth Bring forth to time her lordliest birth When Shakespeare from thy lips drew breath And laughed to hold in one soft hand A spell that bade the world's wheel stand, And power on life, and power on death, With quiring suns and sunbright showers Praise him, the flower of all thy flowers. MAY Hail, May, whose bark puts forth full-sailed For summer; May, whom Chaucer hailed With all his happy might of heart, And gave thy rosebright daisy-tips Strange fragrance from his amorous lips That still thine own breath seems to part And sweeten till each word they say Is even a flower of flowering May. JUNE Strong June, superb, serene, elate With conscience of thy sovereign state Untouched of thunder, though the storm Scathe here and there thy shuddering skies And bid its lightning cross thine eyes With fire, thy golden hours inform Earth and the souls of men with life That brings forth peace from shining strife. JULY Hail, proud July, whose fervent mouth Bids even be morn and north be south By grace and gospel of thy word, Whence all the splendour of the sea Lies breathless with delight in thee And marvel at the music heard From the ardent silent lips of noon And midnight's rapturous plenilune. AUGUST Great August, lord of golden lands, Whose lordly joy through seas and strands And all the red-ripe heart of earth Strikes passion deep as life, and stills The folded vales and folding hills With gladness too divine for mirth, The gracious glories of thine eyes Make night a noon where darkness dies. SEPTEMBER Hail, kind September, friend whose grace Renews the bland year's bounteous face With largess given of corn and wine Through many a land that laughs with love Of thee and all the heaven above, More fruitful found than all save thine Whose skies fulfil with strenuous cheer The fervent fields that knew thee near. OCTOBER October of the tawny crown, Whose heavy-laden hands drop down Blessing, the bounties of thy breath And mildness of thy mellowing might Fill earth and heaven with love and light Too sweet for fear to dream of death Or memory, while thy joy lives yet, To know what joy would fain forget. NOVEMBER Hail, soft November, though thy pale Sad smile rebuke the words that hail Thy sorrow with no sorrowing words Or gratulate thy grief with song Less bitter than the winds that wrong Thy withering woodlands, where the birds Keep hardly heart to sing or see How fair thy faint wan face may be. DECEMBER December, thou whose hallowing hands On shuddering seas and hardening lands Set as a sacramental sign The seal of Christmas felt on earth As witness toward a new year's birth Whose promise makes thy death divine, The crowning joy that comes of thee Makes glad all grief on land or sea. ENGLAND: AN ODE I Sea and strand, and a lordlier land than sea-tides rolling and rising sun Clasp and lighten in climes that brighten with day when day that was here is done, Call aloud on their children, proud with trust that future and past are one. Far and near from the swan's nest here the storm-birds bred of her fair white breast, Sons whose home was the sea-wave's foam, have borne the fame of her east and west; North and south has the storm-wind's mouth rung praise of England and England's quest. Fame, wherever her flag flew, never forbore to fly with an equal wing: France and Spain with their warrior train bowed down before her as thrall to king; India knelt at her feet, and felt her sway more fruitful of life than spring. Darkness round them as iron bound fell off from races of elder name, Slain at sight of her eyes, whose light bids freedom lighten and burn as flame; Night endures not the touch that cures of kingship tyrants, and slaves of shame. All the terror of time, where error and fear were lords of a world of slaves, Age on age in resurgent rage and anguish darkening as waves on waves, Fell or fled from a face that shed such grace as quickens the dust of graves. Things of night at her glance took flight: the strengths of darkness recoiled and sank: Sank the fires of the murderous pyres whereon wild agony writhed and shrank: Rose the light of the reign of right from gulfs of years that the darkness drank. Yet the might of her wings in flight, whence glory lightens and music rings, Loud and bright as the dawn's, shall smite and still the discord of evil things, Yet not slain by her radiant reign, but darkened now by her sail-stretched wings. II Music made of change and conquest, glory born of evil slain, Stilled the discord, slew the darkness, bade the lights of tempest wane, Where the deathless dawn of England rose in sign that right should reign. Mercy, where the tiger wallowed mad and blind with blood and lust, Justice, where the jackal yelped and fed, and slaves allowed it just, Rose as England's light on Asia rose, and smote them down to dust. Justice bright as mercy, mercy girt by justice with her sword, Smote and saved and raised and ruined, till the tyrant-ridden horde Saw the lightning fade from heaven and knew the sun for God and lord. Where the footfall sounds of England, where the smile of England shines, Rings the tread and laughs the face of freedom, fair as hope divines Days to be, more brave than ours and lit by lordlier stars for signs. All our past acclaims our future: Shakespeare's voice and Nelson's hand, Milton's faith and Wordsworth's trust in this our chosen and chainless land, Bear us witness: come the world against her, England yet shall stand. Earth and sea bear England witness if he lied who said it; he Whom the winds that ward her, waves that clasp, and herb and flower and tree Fed with English dews and sunbeams, hail as more than man may be. No man ever spake as he that bade our England be but true, Keep but faith with England fast and firm, and none should bid her rue; None may speak as he: but all may know the sign that Shakespeare knew. III From the springs of the dawn, from the depths of the noon, from the heights of the night that shine, Hope, faith, and remembrance of glory that found but in England her throne and her shrine, Speak louder than song may proclaim them, that here is the seal of them set for a sign. And loud as the sea's voice thunders applause of the land that is one with the sea Speaks Time in the ear of the people that never at heart was not inly free The word of command that assures us of life, if we will but that life shall be; If the race that is first of the races of men who behold unashamed the sun Stand fast and forget not the sign that is given of the years and the wars that are done, The token that all who are born of its blood should in heart as in blood be one. The word of remembrance that lightens as fire from the steeps of the storm-lit past Bids only the faith of our fathers endure in us, firm as they held it fast: That the glory which was from the first upon England alone may endure to the last. That the love and the hate may change not, the faith may not fade, nor the wrath nor scorn, That shines for her sons and that burns for her foemen as fire of the night or the morn: That the births of her womb may forget not the sign of the glory wherein they were born. A light that is more than the sunlight, an air that is brighter than morning's breath, Clothes England about as the strong sea clasps her, and answers the word that it saith; The word that assures her of life if she change not, and choose not the ways of death. Change darkens and lightens around her, alternate in hope and in fear to be: Hope knows not if fear speak truth, nor fear whether hope be not blind as she: But the sun is in heaven that beholds her immortal, and girdled with life by the sea. ETON: AN ODE FOR THE FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDATION OF THE COLLEGE I Four hundred summers and fifty have shone on the meadows of Thames and died Since Eton arose in an age that was darkness, and shone by his radiant side As a star that the spell of a wise man's word bade live and ascend and abide. And ever as time's flow brightened, a river more dark than the storm-clothed sea, And age upon age rose fairer and larger in promise of hope set free, With England Eton her child kept pace as a fostress of men to be. And ever as earth waxed wiser, and softer the beating of time's wide wings, Since fate fell dark on her father, most hapless and gentlest of star-crossed kings, Her praise has increased as the chant of the dawn that the choir of the noon outsings. II Storm and cloud in the skies were loud, and lightning mocked at the blind sun's light; War and woe on the land below shed heavier shadow than falls from night; Dark was earth at her dawn of birth as here her record of praise is bright. Clear and fair through her morning air the light first laugh of the sunlit stage Rose and rang as a fount that sprang from depths yet dark with a spent storm's rage, Loud and glad as a boy's, and bade the sunrise open on Shakespeare's age. Lords of state and of war, whom fate found strong in battle, in counsel strong, Here, ere fate had approved them great, abode their season, and thought not long: Here too first was the lark's note nursed that filled and flooded the skies with song. III Shelley, lyric lord of England's lordliest singers, here first heard Ring from lips of poets crowned and dead the Promethean word Whence his soul took fire, and power to outsoar the sunward-soaring bird. Still the reaches of the river, still the light on field and hill, Still the memories held aloft as lamps for hope's young fire to fill, Shine, and while the light of England lives shall shine for England still. When four hundred more and fifty years have risen and shone and set, Bright with names that men remember, loud with names that men forget, Haply here shall Eton's record be what England finds it yet. THE UNION I Three in one, but one in three, God, who girt her with the sea, Bade our Commonweal to be: Nought, if now not one. Though fraud and fear would sever The bond assured for ever, Their shameful strength shall never Undo what heaven has done. II South and North and West and East Watch the ravens flock to feast, Dense as round some death-struck beast, Black as night is black. Stand fast as faith together In stress of treacherous weather When hounds and wolves break tether And Treason guides the pack. III Lovelier than thy seas are strong, Glorious Ireland, sword and song Gird and crown thee: none may wrong, Save thy sons alone. The sea that laughs around us Hath sundered not but bound us: The sun's first rising found us Throned on its equal throne. IV North and South and East and West, All true hearts that wish thee best Beat one tune and own one quest, Staunch and sure as steel. God guard from dark disunion Our threefold State's communion, God save the loyal Union, The royal Commonweal! EAST TO WEST Sunset smiles on sunrise: east and west are one, Face to face in heaven before the sovereign sun. From the springs of the dawn everlasting a glory renews and transfigures the west, From the depths of the sunset a light as of morning enkindles the broad sea's breast, And the lands and the skies and the waters are glad of the day's and the night's work done. Child of dawn, and regent on the world-wide sea, England smiles on Europe, fair as dawn and free. Not the waters that gird her are purer, nor mightier the winds that her waters know. But America, daughter and sister of England, is praised of them, far as they flow: Atlantic responds to Pacific the praise of her days that have been and shall be. So from England westward let the watchword fly, So for England eastward let the seas reply; Praise, honour, and love everlasting be sent on the wind's wings, westward and east, That the pride of the past and the pride of the future may mingle as friends at feast, And the sons of the lords of the world-wide seas be one till the world's life die. INSCRIPTIONS FOR THE FOUR SIDES OF A PEDESTAL I Marlowe, the father of the sons of song Whose praise is England's crowning praise, above All glories else that crown her, sweet and strong As England, clothed with light and fire of love, And girt with might of passion, thought, and trust, Stands here in spirit, sleeps not here in dust. II Marlowe, a star too sovereign, too superb, To fade when heaven took fire from Shakespeare's light, A soul that knew but song's triumphal curb And love's triumphant bondage, holds of right His pride of place, who first in place and time Made England's voice as England's heart sublime. III Marlowe bade England live in living song: The light he lifted up lit Shakespeare's way: He spake, and life sprang forth in music, strong As fire or lightning, sweet as dawn of day. Song was a dream where day took night to wife: "Let there be life," he said: and there was life. IV Marlowe of all our fathers first beheld Beyond the tidal ebb and flow of things The tideless depth and height of souls, impelled By thought or passion, borne on waves or wings, Beyond all flight or sight but song's: and he First gave our song a sound that matched our sea. ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD BURTON Night or light is it now, wherein Sleeps, shut out from the wild world's din, Wakes, alive with a life more clear, One who found not on earth his kin? Sleep were sweet for awhile, were dear Surely to souls that were heartless here, Souls that faltered and flagged and fell, Soft of spirit and faint of cheer. A living soul that had strength to quell Hope the spectre and fear the spell, Clear-eyed, content with a scorn sublime And a faith superb, can it fare not well? Life, the shadow of wide-winged time, Cast from the wings that change as they climb, Life may vanish in death, and seem Less than the promise of last year's prime. But not for us is the past a dream Wherefrom, as light from a clouded stream, Faith fades and shivers and ebbs away, Faint as the moon if the sundawn gleam. Faith, whose eyes in the low last ray Watch the fire that renews the day, Faith which lives in the living past, Rock-rooted, swerves not as weeds that sway. As trees that stand in the storm-wind fast She stands, unsmitten of death's keen blast, With strong remembrance of sunbright spring Alive at heart to the lifeless last. Night, she knows, may in no wise cling To a soul that sinks not and droops not wing, A sun that sets not in death's false night Whose kingdom finds him not thrall but king. Souls there are that for soul's affright Bow down and cower in the sun's glad sight, Clothed round with faith that is one with fear, And dark with doubt of the live world's light. But him we hailed from afar or near As boldest born of the bravest here And loved as brightest of souls that eyed Life, time, and death with unchangeful cheer, A wider soul than the world was wide, Whose praise made love of him one with pride, What part has death or has time in him, Who rode life's lists as a god might ride? While England sees not her old praise dim, While still her stars through the world's night swim, A fame outshining her Raleigh's fame, A light that lightens her loud sea's rim, Shall shine and sound as her sons proclaim The pride that kindles at Burton's name. And joy shall exalt their pride to be The same in birth if in soul the same. But we that yearn for a friend's face—we Who lack the light that on earth was he— Mourn, though the light be a quenchless flame That shines as dawn on a tideless sea. ELEGY 1869-1891 Auvergne, Auvergne, O wild and woful land, O glorious land and gracious, white as gleam The stairs of heaven, black as a flameless brand, Strange even as life, and stranger than a dream, Could earth remember man, whose eyes made bright The splendour of her beauty, lit by day Or soothed and softened and redeemed by night, Wouldst thou not know what light has passed away? Wouldst thou not know whom England, whom the world, Mourns? For the world whose wildest ways he trod, And smiled their dangers down that coiled and curled Against him, knows him now less man than god. Our demigod of daring, keenest-eyed To read and deepest read in earth's dim things, A spirit now whose body of death has died And left it mightier yet in eyes and wings, The sovereign seeker of the world, who now Hath sought what world the light of death may show, Hailed once with me the crowns that load thy brow, Crags dark as midnight, columns bright as snow. Thy steep small Siena, splendid and content As shines the mightier city's Tuscan pride Which here its face reflects in radiance, pent By narrower bounds from towering side to side, Set fast between the ridged and foamless waves Of earth more fierce and fluctuant than the sea, The fearless town of towers that hails and braves The heights that gird, the sun that brands Le Puy; The huddled churches clinging on the cliffs As birds alighting might for storm's sake cling, Moored to the rocks as tempest-harried skiffs To perilous refuge from the loud wind's wing; The stairs on stairs that wind and change and climb Even up to the utmost crag's edge curved and curled, More bright than vision, more than faith sublime, Strange as the light and darkness of the world; Strange as are night and morning, stars and sun, And washed from west and east by day's deep tide. Shine yet less fair, when all their heights are won, Than sundawn shows thy pillared mountain-side. Even so the dawn of death, whose light makes dim The starry fires that life sees rise and set, Shows higher than here he shone before us him Whom faith forgets not, nor shall fame forget. Even so those else unfooted heights we clomb Through scudding mist and eddying whirls of cloud, Blind as a pilot beaten blind with foam, And shrouded as a corpse with storm's grey shroud, Foot following foot along the sheer strait ledge Where space was none to bear the wild goat's feet Till blind we sat on the outer footless edge Where darkling death seemed fain to share the seat, The abyss before us, viewless even as time's, The abyss to left of us, the abyss to right, Bid thought now dream how high the freed soul climbs That death sets free from change of day and night. The might of raging mist and wind whose wrath Shut from our eyes the narrowing rock we trod, The wondrous world it darkened, made our path Like theirs who take the shadow of death for God. Yet eastward, veiled in vapour white as snow, The grim black herbless heights that scorn the sun And mock the face of morning rose to show The work of earth-born fire and earthquake done. And half the world was haggard night, wherein We strove our blind way through: but far above Was light that watched the wild mists whirl and spin, And far beneath a land worth light and love. Deep down the Valley of the Curse, undaunted By shadow and whisper of winds with sins for wings And ghosts of crime wherethrough the heights live haunted By present sense of past and monstrous things, The glimmering water holds its gracious way Full forth, and keeps one happier hand's-breadth green Of all that storm-scathed world whereon the sway Sits dark as death of deadlier things unseen. But on the soundless and the viewless river That bears through night perchance again to day The dead whom death and twin-born fame deliver From life that dies, and time's inveterate sway, No shadow save of falsehood and of fear That brands the future with the past, and bids The spirit wither and the soul grow sere, Hovers or hangs to cloud life's opening lids, If life have eyes to lift again and see, Beyond the bounds of sensual sight or breath, What life incognisable of ours may be That turns our light to darkness deep as death. Priests and the soulless serfs of priests may swarm With vulturous acclamation, loud in lies, About his dust while yet his dust is warm Who mocked as sunlight mocks their base blind eyes, Their godless ghost of godhead, false and foul As fear his dam or hell his throne: but we, Scarce hearing, heed no carrion church-wolf's howl: The corpse be theirs to mock; the soul is free. Free as ere yet its earthly day was done It lived above the coil about us curled: A soul whose eyes were keener than the sun, A soul whose wings were wider than the world. We, sons of east and west, ringed round with dreams, Bound fast with visions, girt about with fears, Live, trust, and think by chance, while shadow seems Light, and the wind that wrecks a hand that steers. He, whose full soul held east and west in poise, Weighed man with man, and creed of man's with creed, And age with age, their triumphs and their toys, And found what faith may read not and may read. Scorn deep and strong as death and life, that lit With fire the smile at lies and dreams outworn Wherewith he smote them, showed sublime in it The splendour and the steadfastness of scorn. What loftier heaven, what lordlier air, what space Illimitable, insuperable, infinite, Now to that strong-winged soul yields ampler place Than passing darkness yields to passing light, No dream, no faith can tell us: hope and fear, Whose tongues were loud of old as children's, now From babbling fall to silence: change is here, And death; dark furrows drawn by time's dark plough. Still sunward here on earth its flight was bent, Even since the man within the child began To yearn and kindle with superb intent And trust in time to magnify the man. Still toward the old garden of the Sun, whose fruit The honey-heavy lips of Sophocles Desired and sang, wherein the unwithering root Sprang of all growths that thought brings forth and sees Incarnate, bright with bloom or dense with leaf Far-shadowing, deep as depth of dawn or night: And all were parcel of the garnered sheaf His strenuous spirit bound and stored aright. And eastward now, and ever toward the dawn, If death's deep veil by life's bright hand be rent, We see, as through the shadow of death withdrawn, The imperious soul's indomitable ascent. But not the soul whose labour knew not end— But not the swordsman's hand, the crested head— The royal heart we mourn, the faultless friend, Burton—a name that lives till fame be dead. A SEQUENCE OF SONNETS ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT BROWNING

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