All the wondering world might know The joy he had of his Moorish lass. His love, that brighter and larger was Than the starry places, into firm stone He sent, as if the stone were glass Fired and into beauty blown. Solemn and invented gravely In its bulk the fabric stood, Even as Love, that trusteth bravely In its own exceeding good
To be better than the waste Of time's devices; grandly spaced, Seriously the fabric stood. But over it all a pleasure went Of carven delicate ornament, Wreathing up like ravishment, Mentioning in sculptures twined The blitheness Love hath in his mind; And like delighted senses were The windows, and the columns there Made the following sight to ache As the heart that did them make. Well I can see that shining song Flowering there, the upward throng Of porches, pillars and windowed walls, Spires like piercing panpipe calls, Up to the roof's snow-cloud flight; All glancing in the Spanish light White as water of arctic tides, Save an amber dazzle on sunny sides.
You had said, the radiant sheen Of that palace might have been
A young god's fantasy, ere he came His serious worlds and suns to frame; Such an immortal passion
Quivered among the slim hewn stone. And in the nights it seemed a jar Cut in the substance of a star,
Wherein a wine, that will be poured
Some time for feasting Heaven, was stored.
But within this fretted shell, The wonder of Love made visible, The King a private gentle mood There placed, of pleasant quietude. For right amidst there was a court, Where always muskèd silences Listened to water and to trees; And herbage of all fragrant sort,- Lavender, lad's-love, rosemary, Basil, tansy, centaury,-
Was the grass of that orchard, hid Love's amazements all amid.
Jarring the air with rumor cool,
Small fountains played into a pool.
With sound as soft as the barley's hiss When its beard just sprouting is;
Whence a young stream, that trod on moss, Prettily rimpled the court across. And in the pool's clear idleness, re Moving like dreams through happiness, Shoals of small bright fishes were; In and out weed-thickets bent Perch and carp, and sauntering went With mounching jaws and eyes a-stare; Or on a lotus leaf would crawl
A brindled loach to bask and sprawl, Tasting the warm sun ere it dipped Into the water; but quick as fear Back his shining brown head slipped To crouch on the gravel of his lair, Where the cooled sunbeams, broke in wrack, Spilt shattered gold about his back. So within that green-veiled air, Within that white-walled quiet, where Innocent water thought aloud, - Childish prattle that must make The wise sunlight with laughter shake
On the leafage overbowed,
Often the King and his love-lass
Let the delicious hours pass.
All the outer world could see Graved and sawn amazingly Their love's delighted riotise, Fixed in marble for all men's eyes; But only these twain could abide In the cool peace that withinside Thrilling desire and passion dwelt; They only knew the still meaning spelt By Love's flaming script, which is God's word written in ecstasies.
And where is now that palace gone, All the magical skilled stone, All the dreaming towers wrought
By Love as if no more than thought The unresisting marble was? How could such a wonder pass?
Ah, it was but built in vain
Against the stupid horns of Rome,
That pushed down into the common loam
The loveliness that shone in Spain.
But we have raised it up again!
A loftier palace, fairer far,
Is ours, and one that fears no war. Safe in marvellous walls we are; Wondering sense like builded fires, High amazement of desires, Delight and certainty of love, Closing around, roofing above
Our unapproached and perfect hour
Within the splendors of love's power.
Lascelles Abercrombie (1881
AGAINST the green flame of the hawthorn-tree, His scarlet tunic burns;
And livelier than the green sap's mantling glee The Spring fire tingles through him headily As quivering he turns
And stammers out the old amazing tale
Of youth and April weather;
While she, with half-breathed jests that, sobbing, fail, Sits, tight-lipped, quaking, eager-eyed and pale,
Beneath her purple feather.
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson [1878
ONCE on a time, once on a time, Before the Dawn began, There was a nymph of Dian's train Who was beloved of Pan; Once on a time a peasant lad
Who loved a lass at home; Once on a time a Saxon king
Who loved a queen of Rome.
The world has but one song to sing,
And it is ever new,
The first and last of all the songs
For it is ever true
A little song, a tender song,
The only song it hath; "There was a youth of Ascalon Who loved a girl of Gath."
A thousand thousand years have gone,
And æons still shall pass,
Yet shall the world forever sing
Of him who loved a lass
An olden song, a golden song,
And sing it unafraid;
"There was a youth, once on a time,
Who dearly loved a maid."
From "Astrophel and Stella"
DOUBT you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure? Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.
Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth? Who womankind at once both decks and staineth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; [ Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.
Who hath the feet, whose step all sweetness planteth? Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.
Who hath the breast, whose milk doth passions nourish? Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due;
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.
Who hath the hand, which without stroke subdueth? Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.
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