Arthur Davison Ficke - Swinburne, An Elegy lyrics

I The autumn dusk, not yearly but eternal, Is haunted by thy voice. Who turns his way far from the valleys venal And by dark choice Disturbs those heights from which the low-lying land Rise sheerly toward the heavens, with thee may stand And hear thy thunders down the mountains strown. But none save him who shares thy prophet-sight Shall thence behold what cosmic dawning-light Met thy soul's own. II Master of music! Unmelodious singing Must build thy praises now. Master of vision! vainly come we, bringing Words to endow Thy silence, - where, beyond our clouded powers, The sun-shot glory of resplendent hours Invests thee of the Dionysiac flame. Yet undissuaded come we, here to make Not thine enrichment but our own who wake Thy echoing fame. III Not o'er thy dust we brood, - we who have never Looked in thy living eyes. Nor wintry blossom shall we come to sever Where thy grave lies. Let witlings dream, with shallow pride elate, That they approach the presence of the great When at the spot of birth or d**h they stand. But hearts in whom thy heart lives, though they be By oceans sundered, walk the night with thee In alien land. IV For them, grief speaks not with the tidings spoken That thou art of the dead. No lamp extinguished when the bowl is broken, No music fled When the lute crumbles, art thou nor shalt be; But as a great wave, lifted on the sea, Surges triumphant toward the sleeping shore, Thou fallest, in splendour of irradiant rain, To sweep resurgent all the ocean plain Forevermore. V The seas of earth with flood tides filled thy bosom; The sea-winds to thy voice Lent power; the Grecian with the English blossom Twined, to rejoice Upon thy brow in chaplets of new bloom; And over thee the Celtic mists of doom Hovered to give their magics to thy hand; And past the moon, where Music dwells alone, She woke, and loved, and left her starry zone As thy command. VI For thee spake Beauty from the shadowy waters; For thee Earth garlanded With loveliness and light her mortal daughters; Toward thee was sped The arrow of swift longing, keen delight, Wonder that pierces, cruel needs that smite, Madness and melody and hope and tears. And these with lights and loveliness illume Thy pages, where rich Summer's faint perfume Outlasts the years. VII Outlasts, too well! For of the hearts that know thee Few know or dare to stand On thy keen chilling heights; but where below thee Thy lavish hand Has scattered brilliant j**els of summer song And flowers of pa**ionate speech, there grope the throng Crying - "Behold! this bauble, this is he!" And of their love or hate, the foolish wars Echo up faintly where amid lone stars Thy soul may be. VIII But some, who find in thee a word exceeding Even thy power of speech - To whom each song, - like an oak-leaf crimson, bleeding, Fallen, - can teach Tidings of that high forest whence it came Where the wooded mountain-slope in one vast flame Burns as the Autumn kindles on its quest - These rapt diviners gather close to thee: - Whom now the Winter holds in dateless fee Sealèd of rest. IX Strings never touched before, - strange accents chanting, - Strange quivering lambent words, - A far exalted hope serene or panting Mastering the chords, - A sweetness fierce and tragic, - these were thine, O singing lover of dark Proserpine! O spirit who lit the Maenad hills with song! O Augur bearing aloft thy torch divine, Whose flickering lights bewilder as they shine Down on the throng. X Not thy deep glooms, but thine exceeding glory Maketh men blind to thee. For them thou hast no evening fireside story. But to be free - But to arise, spurning all bonds that fold The spirit of man in fetters forged of old - This was the mighty trend of thy desire; Shattering the Gods, teaching the heart to mould No longer idols, but aloft to hold The soul's own fire. XI Yea, thou didst burst the final gates of capture; And thy strong heart has pa**ed From youth, half-blinded by its golden rapture, Into the vast Desolate bleakness of life's iron spaces; And there found solace, not in faiths, or faces, Or aught that must endure Time's harsh control. In the wilderness, alone, when skies were cloven, Thou hast thy garment and thy refuge woven From thine own soul. XII The faiths and forms of yesteryear are waning, Dropping, like leaves. Through the wood sweeps a great wind of complaining; As Time bereaves Pitiful hearts of all that they thought holy. The icy stars look down on melancholy Shelterless creatures of a pillaged day: A day of disillusionment and terror, A day that yields no solace for the error It takes away. XIII Thee with no solace, but with bolder pa**ion The bitter day endowed. As battling seas from the frail swimmer fashion At last the proud Indomitable master of their tides, Who with exultant power splendidly rides The terrible summit of each whelming wave, - So didst thou reap, from fields of wreckage, gain; Harvesting the wild fruit of the bitter main, Strength that would save. XIV Here where old barks upon new headlands shatter, And worlds seem torn apart, Amid the creeds now vain to shield or flatter The mortal heart, Where the wild welter of strange knowledge won From grave and engine and the chemic sun Subdues the age to faith in dust and gold: The bardic laurel thou hast dowered with youth, In living witness of the spirit's truth, Like prophets old. XV Thee shall the future time with joy inherit. Hast thou not sung and said: "Save its own light, none leads the mortal spirit, None ever led"? Time shall bring many, even as thy steps have trod, Where the souls speaks authentically of God, Sustained by glories strange and strong and new. Yet these most Orphic mysteries of thy heart Only to kindred can thy speech impart; And they are few. XVI Few men shall love thee, whom fierce powers have lifted High beyond meed of praise. But as some bark whose seeking sail has drifted Through storm of days, We hail thee, bearing back thy golden flowers Gathered beyond the Western Isles, in bowers That had not seen, till thine, a vessel's wake. And looking on thee from our land-built towers Know that such sea-dawn never can be ours As thou sawest break. XVII Now sailest thou dim-lighted, lonelier water. By shores of bitter seas Low is thy speech with Ceres' ghostly daughter, Whose twined lilies Are not more pale than thou, O bard most sweet, Most bitter; - for whose brow sedge-crowns were mete And crowns of splendid holly green and red; Who pa**est from the dust of careless feet To lands where sunrise thou hast sought shall greet Thy holy head. XVIII Thou hast followed after him whose hopes were greatest, - That meteor soul divine; Near whom divine we hail thee: thou the latest Of that bright line Of flame-lipped masters of the spell of song, Enduring in succession proud and long, The banner-bearers in triumphant wars: Latest; and first of that bright line to be, For whom thou also, flame-lipped, spirit-free, Art of the stars.