undesirable task of reproducing the rare exceptional effect of a line
overcharged on purpose with a preponderance of heavy-footed spondees:
and this for the obvious reason that even if such a line — which I
doubt — could be exactly represented, foot by foot and pause for pause,
in English, this English line would no more be a verse in any proper
sense of the word than is the line I am writing at this moment. And my
main intention, or at least my main desire, in the undertaking of this
brief adventure, was to renew as far as possible for English ears the
music of this resonant and triumphant metre, which goes ringing at full
gallop as of horses who
‘dance as ‘twere to the music
Their own hoofs make.’
I would not seem over curious in search of an apt or inapt quotation:
but nothing can be fitter than a verse of Shakespeare’s to praise at
once and to describe the most typical verse of Aristophanes.
THE BIRDS.
(685-723.)
Come on then, ye dwellers by nature in darkness, and like to the leaves’
generations,
That are little of might, that are moulded of mire, unenduring and
shadowlike nations,
Poor plumeless ephemerals, comfortless mortals, as visions of creatures
fast fleeing,
Lift up your mind unto us that are deathless, and dateless the date of
our being:
Us, children of heaven, us, ageless for aye, us, all of whose thoughts
are eternal;
That ye may from henceforth, having heard of us all things aright as to
matters supernal,
Of the being of birds and beginning of gods, and of streams, and the
dark beyond reaching,
Truthfully knowing aright, in my name bid Prodicus pack with his preaching.
It was Chaos and Night at the first, and the blackness of darkness, and
hell’s broad border,
Earth was not, nor air, neither heaven; when in depths of the womb of the
dark without order
First thing first-born of the black-plumed Night was a wind-egg hatched
in her bosom,
Whence timely with seasons revolving again sweet Love burst out as a
blossom,
Gold wings glittering forth of his back, like whirlwinds gustily turning.
He, after his wedlock with Chaos, whose wings are of darkness, in hell
broad-burning,
For his nestlings begat him the race of us first, and upraised us to
light new-lighted.
And before this was not the race of the gods, until all things by Love
were united;
And of kind united with kind in communion of nature the sky and the sea
are
Brought forth, and the earth, and the race of the gods everlasting and
blest. So that we are
Far away the most ancient of all things blest. And that we are of Love’s
generation
There are manifest manifold signs. We have wings, and with us have the
Loves habitation;
And manifold fair young folk that forswore love once, ere the bloom of
them ended,
Have the men that pursued and desired them subdued, by the help of us
only befriended,
With such baits as a quail, a flamingo, a goose, or a cock’s comb staring
and splendid.
All best good things that befall men come from us birds, as is plain to
all reason:
For first we proclaim and make known to them spring, and the winter and
autumn in season;
Bid sow, when the crane starts clanging for Afric, in shrill-voiced
emigrant number,
And calls to the pilot to hang up his rudder again for the season, and
slumber;
And then weave a cloak for Orestes the thief, lest he strip men of theirs
if it freezes.
And again thereafter the kite reappearing announces a change in the
breezes,
And that here is the season for shearing your sheep of their spring wool.
Then does the swallow
Give you notice to sell your greatcoat, and provide something light for
the heat that’s to follow.
Thus are we as Ammon or Delphi unto you, Dodona, nay, Phoebus Apollo.
For, as first ye come all to get auguries of birds, even such is in all
things your carriage,
Be the matter a matter of trade, or of earning your bread, or of any
one’s marriage.
And all things ye lay to the charge of a bird that belong to discerning
prediction:
Winged fame is a bird, as you reckon: you sneeze, and the sign’s as a
bird for conviction:
All tokens are ‘birds’ with you — sounds too, and lackeys, and donkeys.
Then must it not follow
That we ARE to you all as the manifest godhead that speaks in prophetic
Apollo?
October 19, 1880.
OFF SHORE.
When the might of the summer
Is most on the sea;
When the days overcome her
With joy but to be,
With rapture of royal enchantment, and sorcery that sets her not free,
But for hours upon hours
As a thrall she remains
Spell-bound as with flowers
And content in their chains,
And her loud steeds fret not, and lift not a lock of their deep white
manes;
Then only, far under
In the depths of her hold,
Some gleam of its wonder
Man’s eye may behold,
Its wild-weed forests of crimson and russet and olive and gold.
Still deeper and dimmer
And goodlier they glow
For the eyes of the swimmer
Who scans them below
As he crosses the zone of their flowerage that knows not of sunshine and
snow.
Soft blossomless frondage
And foliage that gleams
As to prisoners in bondage
The light of their dreams,
The desire of a dawn unbeholden, with hope on the wings of its beams.
Not as prisoners entombed
Waxen haggard and wizen,
But consoled and illumed
In the depths of their prison
With delight of the light everlasting and vision of dawn on them risen,
From the banks and the beds
Of the waters divine
They lift up their heads
And the flowers of them shine
Through the splendour of darkness that clothes them of water that glimmers
like wine.
Bright bank over bank
Making glorious the gloom,
Soft rank upon rank,
Strange bloom after bloom,
They kindle the liquid low twilight, the dusk of the dim sea’s womb.
Through the subtle and tangible
Gloom without form,
Their branches, infrangible
Ever of storm
Spread softer their sprays than the shoots of the woodland when April is
warm.
As the flight of the thunder, full
Charged with its word,
Dividing the wonderful
Depths like a bird,
Speaks wrath and delight to the heart of the night that exults to have
heard,
So swiftly, though soundless
In silence’s ear,
Light, winged from the boundless
Blue depths full of cheer,
; Speaks joy to the heart of the waters that part not before him, but hear.
Light, perfect and visible
Godhead of God,
God indivisible,
Lifts but his rod,
And the shadows are scattered in sunder, and darkness is light at his nod.
At the touch of his wand,
At the nod of his head
From the spaces beyond
Where the dawn hath her bed,
Earth, water, and air are transfigured, and rise as one risen from the
dead.
He puts forth his hand,
And the mountains are thrilled
To the heart as they stand
In his presence, fulfilled
With his glory that utters his grace upon earth, and her sorrows are
stilled.
The moan of her travail
That groans for the light
Till dayspring unravel
The weft of the night,
At the sound of the strings of the music of morning, falls dumb with
delight.
He gives forth his word,
And the word that he saith,
Ere well it be heard,
Strikes darkness to death;
For the thought of his heart is the sunrise, and dawn as the sound of his
breath.
And the strength of its pulses
That passion makes proud
Confounds and convulses
The depths of the cloud
Of the darkness that heaven was engirt with, divided and rent as a shroud,
As the veil of the shrine
Of the temple of old
When darkness divine
Over noonday was rolled;
So the heart of the night by the pulse of the light is convulsed and
controlled.
And the sea’s heart, groaning
For glories withdrawn,
And the waves’ mouths, moaning
All night for the dawn,
Are uplift as the hearts and the mouths of the singers on leaside and lawn.
And the sound of the quiring
Of all these as one,
Desired and desiring
Till dawn’s will be done,
Fills full with delight of them heaven till it burns as the heart of the
sun.
Till the waves too inherit
And waters take part
In the sense of the spirit
That breathes from his heart,
And are kindled with music as fire when the lips of the morning part,
With music unheard
In the light of her lips,
In the life-giving word
Of the dewfall that drips
On the grasses of earth, and the wind that enkindles the wings of the
ships.
White glories of wings
As of seafaring birds
That flock from the springs
Of the sunrise in herds
With the wind for a herdsman, and hasten or halt at the change of his
words.
As the watchword’s change
When the wind’s note shifts,
And the skies grow strange,
And the white squall drifts
Up sharp from the sea-line, vexing the sea till the low cloud lifts.
At the charge of his word
Bidding pause, bidding haste,
When the ranks are stirred
And the lines displaced,
They scatter as wild swans parting adrift on the wan green waste.
At the hush of his word
In a pause of his breath
When the waters have heard
His will that he saith,
They stand as a flock penned close in its fold for division of death.
As a flock by division
Of death to be thinned,
As the shades in a vision
Of spirits that sinned;
So glimmer their shrouds and their sheetings as clouds on the stream of the
wind.
But the sun stands fast,
And the sea burns bright,
And the flight of them past
Is no more than the flight
Of the snow-soft swarm of serene wings poised and afloat in the light.
Like flowers upon flowers
In a festival way
When hours after hours
Shed grace on the day,
White blossomlike butterflies hover and gleam through the snows of the
spray.
Like snow-coloured petals
Of blossoms that flee
From storm that unsettles
The flower as the tree
They flutter, a legion of flowers on the wing, through the field of the
sea.
Through the furrowless field
Where the foam-blossoms blow
And the secrets are sealed
Of their harvest below
They float in the path of the sunbeams, as flakes or as blossoms of snow.
Till the sea’s ways darken,
And the God, withdrawn,
Give ear not or hearken
If prayer on him fawn,
And the sun’s self seem but a shadow, the noon as a ghost of the dawn.
No shadow, but rather
God, father of song,
Shew grace to me, Father
God, loved of me long,
That I lose not the light of thy face, that my trust in thee work me not
wrong.
While yet I make forward
With face toward thee
Not turned yet in shoreward,
Be thine upon me;
Be thy light on my forehead or ever I turn it again from the sea.
As a kiss on my brow
Be the light of thy grace,
Be thy glance on me now
From the pride of thy place:
As the sign of a sire to a son be the light on my face of thy face.
Thou wast father of olden
Times hailed and adored,
And the sense of thy golden
Great harp’s monochord
Was the joy in the soul of the singers that hailed thee for master and
lord.
Fair father of all
In thy ways that have trod,
That have risen at thy call,
That have thrilled at thy nod,
Arise, shine, lighten upon me, O sun that we see to be God.
As my soul has been dutiful
Only to thee,
O God most beautiful,
Lighten thou me,
As I swim through the dim long rollers, with eyelids uplift from the sea.
Be praised and adored of us
All in accord,
Father and lord of us
Alway adored,
The slayer and the stayer and the harper, the light of us all and our lord.
At the sound of thy lyre,
At the touch of thy rod,
Air quickens to fire
By the foot of thee trod,
The saviour and healer and singer, the living and visible God.
The years are before thee
As shadows of thee,
As men that adore thee,
As cloudlets that flee:
But thou art the God, and thy kingdom is heaven, and thy shrine is the sea.
AFTER NINE YEARS.
TO JOSEPH MAZZINI.
Primâ dicte mihi, summâ dicende Camenâ.
1.
The shadows fallen of years are nine
Since heaven grew seven times more divine
With thy soul entering, and the dearth
Of souls on earth
Grew sevenfold sadder, wanting One
Whose light of life, quenched here and done,
Burns there eternal as the sun.
2.
Beyond all word, beyond all deed,
Beyond
all thought beloved, what need
Has death or love that speech should be,
Hast thou of me?
I had no word, no prayer, no cry,
To praise or hail or mourn thee by,
As when thou too wast man as I.
3.
Nay, never, nor as any born
Save one whose name priests turn to scorn,
Who haply, though we know not now,
Was man as thou,
A wanderer branded with men’s blame,
Loved past man’s utterance: yea, the same,
Perchance, and as his name thy name.
4.
Thou wast as very Christ — not he
Degraded into Deity,
And priest-polluted by such prayer
As poisons air,
Tongue-worship of the tongue that slays,
False faith and parricidal praise:
But the man crowned with suffering days.
5.
God only, being of all mankind
Most manlike, of most equal mind
And heart most perfect, more than can
Be heart of man
Once in ten ages, born to be
As haply Christ was, and as we
Knew surely, seeing, and worshipped thee.
6.
To know thee — this at least was ours,
God, clothed upon with human hours,
O face beloved, O spirit adored,
Saviour and lord!
That wast not only for thine own
Redeemer — not of these alone
But all to whom thy word was known.
7.
Ten years have wrought their will with me
Since last my words took wing for thee
Who then wast even as now above
Me, and my love.
As then thou knewest not scorn, so now
With that beloved benignant brow
Take these of him whose light wast thou.
FOR A PORTRAIT OF FELICE ORSINI.
Steadfast as sorrow, fiery sad, and sweet
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 85
