Song of the Stygian Naiades

PROSERPINE may pull her flowers,

Wet with dew or wet with tears,

Red with anger, pale with fears;

Is it any fault of ours,

If Pluto be an amorous king

And come home nightly, laden

Under his broad bat-wing

With a gentle earthly maiden?

Is it so, Wind, is it so?

All that I and you do know

Is that we saw fly and fix

'Mongst the flowers and reeds of Styx,

   Yesterday,

Where the Furies made their hay

For a bed of tiger cubs,

A great fly of Beelzebub's,

The bee of hearts, which mortals name

Cupid, Love, and Fie for shame.

Proserpine may weep in rage,

But ere I and you have done

Kissing, bathing in the sun,

What I have in yonder cage,

She shall guess and ask in vain,

Bird or serpent, wild or tame;

But if Pluto does 't again,

It shall sing out loud his shame.

What hast caught then? What hast caught?

Nothing but a poet's thought,

Which so light did fall and fix

'Mongst the flowers and reeds of Styx,

   Yesterday,

Where the Furies made their hay

For a bed of tiger cubs,

A great fly of Beelzebub's,

The bee of hearts, which mortals name

Cupid, Love, and Fie for shame.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Poor old pilgrim misery

POOR old pilgrim Misery,

   Beneath the silent moon he sate,

A-listening to the screech owl's cry,

   And the cold wind's goblin prate;

Beside him lay his staff of yew

   With withered willow twined,

His scant gray hair all wet with dew,

   His cheeks with grief ybrined;

       And his cry it was ever, alack!

           Alack, and woe is me!

Anon a wanton imp astray

   His piteous moaning hears,

And from his bosom steals away

   His rosary of tears:

With his plunder fled that urchin elf,

   And hid it in your eyes,

Then tell me back the stolen pelf,

   Give up the lawless prize;

       Or your cry shall be ever, alack!

           Alack, and woe is me!

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

A Ho! A Ho!

   A HO! A ho!

Love's horn doth blow,

And he will out a-hawking go.

His shafts are light as beauty's sighs,

And bright as midnight's brightest eyes,

    And round his starry way

The swan-winged horses of the skies,

With summer's music in their manes,

Curve their fair necks to zephyr's reins,

    And urge their graceful play.

    A ho! A ho!

Love's horn doth blow,

And he will out a-hawking go.

The sparrows flutter round his wrist.

The feathery thieves that Venus kissed

    And taught their morning song,

The linnets seek the airy list,

And swallows too, small pets of Spring,

Beat back the gale with swifter wing,

    And dart and wheel along.

    A ho! A ho!

Love's horn doth blow,

And he will out a-hawking go.

Now woe to every gnat that skips

To filch the fruit of ladies' lips,

    His felon blood is shed;

And woe to flies, whose airy ships

On beauty cast their anchoring bite,

And bandit wasp, that naughty wight,

    Whose sting is slaughter-red.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

If thou wilt ease thine heart

IF thou wilt ease thine heart

Of love, and all its smart,--

      Then sleep, dear, sleep!

And not a sorrow

   Hang any tear on your eyelashes;

   Lie still and deep,

   Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes

The rim o' the sun to-morrow,

      In eastern sky,

But wilt thou cure thine heart

Of love, and all its smart,--

      Then die, dear, die!

'T is deeper, sweeter,

   Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming

      With folded eye;

   And then alone, amid the beaming

Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her

   In eastern sky.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

To Sea! To Sea!

TO sea, to sea! The calm is o'er;

The wanton water leaps in sport,

And rattles down the pebbly shore;

The dolphin wheels, the sea-cow snorts,

And unseen mermaids' pearly song

Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.

Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:

To sea, to sea! The calm is o'er.

To sea, to sea! our wide-winged bark

Shall billowy cleave its sunny way,

And with its shadow, fleet and dark,

Break the caved Tritons' azure day,

Like mighty eagle soaring light

O'er antelopes on Alpine height.

The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,

The sails swell full. To sea, to sea!

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

The Swallow Leaves Her Nest

THE swallow leaves her nest,

The soul my weary breast;

But therefore let the rain

    On my grave

Fall pure; for why complain?

Since both will come again

    O'er the wave.

The wind dead leaves and snow

Doth hurry to and fro;

And, once, a day shall break

    O'er the wave,

When a storm of ghosts shall shake

The dead, until they wake

    In the grave.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

A Cypress-Bough, and A Rose-Wreath Sweet

A CYPRESS-BOUGH, and a rose-wreath sweet,

A wedding robe, and a winding-sheet,

       A bridal bed and a bier.

   Thine be the kisses, maid,

       And smiling Love's alarms;

   And thou, pale youth, be laid

       In the grave's cold arms.

       Each in his own charms,

           Death and Hymen both are here;

               So up with scythe and torch,

               And to the old church porch,

           While all the bells ring clear:

       And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,

       And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.

Now tremble dimples on your cheek,

Sweet be your lips to taste and speak

       For he who kisses is near:

   By her the bride-god fair,

       In youthful power and force;

   By him the grizard bare,

           Pale knight on a pale horse,

           To woo him to a corse.

               Death and Hymen both are here,

                   So up with scythe and torch,

                   And to the old church porch,

               While all the bells ring clear:

   And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,

   And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Old Adam, The Carrion Crow

OLD Adam, the carrion crow,

The old crow of Cairo;

He sat in the shower, and let it flow

Under his tail and over his crest;

    And through every feather

    Leaked the wet weather;

And the bough swung under his nest;

For his beak it was heavy with marrow.

    Is that the wind dying? O no;

    It's only two devils, that blow

    Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,

       In the ghosts' moonshine.

Ho! Eve, my gray carrion wife,

When we have supped on kings' marrow,

Where shall we drink and make merry our life?

Our nest is queen Cleopatra's skull,

    'Tis cloven and cracked,

    And battered and hacked,

But with tears of blue eyes it is full:

Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo.

    Is that the wind dying? O no;

    It's only two devils, that blow

    Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,

       In the ghosts' moonshine.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Song from The Second Brother

STREW not earth with empty stars,

Strew it not with roses,

Nor feathers from the crest of Mars,

Nor summer's idle posies.

'Tis not the primrose-sandalled moon,

Nor cold and silent morn,

Nor he that climbs the dusty noon,

Nor mower war with scythe that drops,

Stuck with helmed and turbaned tops

Of enemies new shorn.

Ye cups, ye lyres, ye trumpets know,

Pour your music, let it flow,

'Tis Bacchus' son who walks below.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Lines Written in a Blank Leaf of the Prometheus Unbound

WRITE it in gold--A spirit of the sun,

An intellect ablaze with heavenly thoughts,

A soul with all the dews of pathos shining,

Odorous with love, and sweet to silent woe

With the dark glories of concentrate song,

Was sphered in mortal earth. Angelic sounds

Alive with panting thoughts sunned the dim world.

The bright creations of an human heart

Wrought magic in the bosoms of mankind.

A flooding summer burst on poetry;

Of which the crowning sun, the night of beauty,

The dancing showers, the birds, whose anthems wild

Note after note unbind the enchanted leaves

Of breaking buds, eve, and the flow of dawn,

Were centred and condensed in his one name

As in a providence--and that was Shelley.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Let Dew the Flowers Fill

LET dew the flowers fill;

    No need of fell despair,

    Though to the grave you bear

One still of soul--but now too still,

    One fair--but now too fair.

For, beneath your feet, the mound,

And the waves, that play around,

Have meaning in their grassy, and their watery, smiles;

And, with a thousand sunny wiles,

    Each says, as he reproves,

    Death's arrow oft is Love's.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Dream-Pedlary

IF there were dreams to sell,

What would you buy?

Some cost a passing bell;

Some a light sigh,

That shakes from Life's fresh crown

Only a rose-leaf down.

If there were dreams to sell,

Merry and sad to tell,

And the crier rang the bell,

What would you buy?

A cottage lone and still,

With bowers nigh,

Shadowy, my woes to still,

Until I die.

Such pearls from Life's fresh crown

Fain would I shake me down.

Were dreams to have at will,

This would best heal my ill,

This would I buy.

But there were dreams to sell

Ill didst thou buy;

Life is a dream, they tell,

Waking, to die.

Dreaming a dream to prize,

Is wishing ghosts to rise;

And if I had the spell

To call the buried well,

Which one should I?

If there are ghosts to raise,

What shall I call,

Out of hell's murky haze,

Heaven's blue pall?

Raise my loved long-lost boy,

To lead me to his joy.--

There are no ghosts to raise;

Out of death lead no ways;

Vain is the call.

Know'st thou not ghosts to sue,

No love thou hast.

Else lie, as I will do,

And breathe thy last.

So out of Life's fresh crown

Fall like a rose-leaf down.

Thus are the ghosts to woo;

Thus are all dreams made true,

Ever to last!

Thomas Lovell Beddoes